>u;eet:  jlome, 


reside  Sketches, 


Bill  ^rp. 


ri(;e,*$i.50. 


/' 


^"^ 


k^ft     Hir^^^   AutK    /i/>^**.*^^—    ^f— 


THE 


Farm  and  the  Fireside; 


SKETCHES  OF  DOMESTIC   LIFE 
IN  WAR  AND  IN   PEACE. 


WRITTEN   AND   PUBLISHED    FOR  THE    ENTERTAINMENT 

OF     THE     GOOD     PEOPLE     AT     HOME,    AND 

DEDICATED    ESPECIALLY    TO 

MOTHERS  AND   CHILDREN. 


BY 

CHAS.   H.   smith:. 

iBILL  ARP.i' 


ATLANTA,  GEORGIA: 
The  Constitution  Publishing  Compant. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1892, 

By  The  Constitution  Publishing  Company, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Georgia  Cracker  and  the  Gander  Pulling 9 

The  Original  "BillArp" 18 

Big   John 27 

The  Koman  Runagee 31 

His  Late  Trials  and  Adventures "- 37 

Bill  Arp  Addresses  Artemus  Ward 43 

The  Falling  Leaves 46 

Adventures  on  the  Farm 52 

Smoking  the  Pipe  of  Peace 58 

The  Sounds  on  the  Front  Piazza 63 

Mr.  Arp  Feels  His  Inadequacy 67 

A  Feast  in  a  Sycamore  Grove 70 

Trials  and  Tribulations 74 

Love  Affaire 78 

Tells  of  His  Wife's  Birthday 82 

Mrs.  Arp  Goes  Off  on  a  Visit 85 

The  Voice  of  Spring 90 

The  Love  of  Money 96 

Cobe  Talks  a  Little 99 

The  Ups  and  Downs  of  Farming 103 

The  Family  Preparing  to  Receive  City  Cousins 108 

Bad  Luck  in  the  Family 112 

The  Struggle  for  Money 117 

On  a  Strain 126 

New  Years  Time 130 

Old  Things  are  Passing  Away 134 

The  Country 138 


983961 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

But  Once  a  Year 142 

Grandfather's  Days 150 

Making  Sausage 157 

The  Old  Trunk 162 

The  Georgia  Colonel 166 

On  the  Old  Times — Alexander  Stephens,  etc 169 

Sticking  to  the  Old 174 

A  Prose  Poem  on  Spring 178 

Uncle  Bart 181 

Christmas  on  the  Farm 183 

Democratic  Principles 187 

Politics 191 

Harvest  Time 194 

The  Old  and  the  New 197 

The  Old  School  Days 211 

Old  School  Days 216 

Roasting  Ears  and  the  Midnight  Dance 221 

Open  House 224 

The  Old  Tavern 228 

The  Old  Time  Darkeys 232 

Owls,  Snakes  and  Whang-Doodles 238 

The  Autumn  Leaves 242 

Uncle  Tom  Barker 246 

Bill  Arpon  Josh  Billings 252 

The  Code  Duello 255 

Billy  in  the  Low  Grounds 260 

William  Gets  Leit 263 

Pleasures  of  Hope  and  Memory , 267 

Arp's  Reminiscenses  of  Fifty  Years 271 

William  and  His  Wife  Visit  the  City 277 

The  Buzzard  Lope 281 

Up  Among  the  Stars 285 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Oh!  These  Women 289 

The  Mischievous  Little  Oues 293 

Thoughts  on  8})viug  aud  Love 297 

Bill  Arp  Plays  Ring  Master 301 

Doctors  Turned  Loose 305 

On  Hailstones,  etc 309 

Runaway  Negroes,  Ghosts  and  Old-Time  Darkeys 313 

The  Candy  Pulling 318 

Family  Reform 322 

Music '- 327 

The  Sorrel  Hair 333 


THE  FARM  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


The  Georgia  Cracker  and  the  Gander  Pulling. 

Not  to  go  back  in  history  further  than  my  own  time  and  recollec- 
tions, let  me  venture  upon  some  unoccupied  territory  and  tell  how 
Cherokee  Georgia  became  the  home  of  that  much-maligned  and  mis- 
understood individual  known  as  the  Georgia  cracker.  I  have  lived 
long  in  his  region,  and  am  close  akin  to  him. 

There  is  really  but  little  difference  between  the  Georgia  cracker  and 
the  Alabama  or  Tennessee  cracker.  They  all  have,  or  had,  the  same 
origin,  and  until  the  Appalachian  range  was  opened  up  to  the  rest  of 
mankind  by  railroads  and  the  school-house,  these  crackers  had  ways 
and  usages,  and  a  language  peculiarly  their  own. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  until  1835  the  Cherokee  Indians  owned 
and  occupied  this  region  of  Georgia— the  portion  lying  west  of  the 
Chattahoochee  and  north  of  the  Tallapoosa  rivers.  They  were  the 
most  peaceable  and  civilized  of  all  the  tribes,  but  they  were  not  sub- 
ject to  Georgia  laws,  and  had  many  conflicts  and  disturbances  with 
their  white  nabors.  It  seemed  to  be  manifest  destiny  that  they  should 
go.  "Go  west,  red  man,"  was  the  white  man's  fiat.  They  went  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  all  their  beautiful  country  was  suddenly 
opened  to  the  ingress  of  whomsoever  might  come.  Georgia  had  it 
surveyed  and  divided  into  lots  of  40  and  160  acres,  and  then  made 
a  lottery  and  gave  every  man  and  widow  and  orphan  child  a  chance 
in  the  drawing.  But  the  cracker  didn't  wait  for  the  drawing.  The 
rude,  untamed  and  restless  people  from  the  mountain  borders  of  Geor- 
gia and  the  Carolinas  flocked  hither  to  pursue  their  wild  and  fascinat- 
ing occupation  of  hunting  and  fishing  for  a  livelihood.  They  came 
separately,  but  soon  assimilated  and  shared  a  common  interest.     There 


10  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

are  such  spirits  in  every  community.  There  are  some  right  here  now 
who  would  rather  go  up  to  Cohutta  mountains  on  a  bear  hunt  than  to 
go  to  New  York  or  Paris  for  pleasure.  I  almost  would  myself,  and  I 
recall  the  earnest  cravings  of  my  youth  to  go  west  and  frnd  a  wilder- 
ness, and  with  my  companions  live  in  a  hut  and  kill  deer  and  turkeys, 
and  sometimes  a  bear  and  a  panther. 

'  '^  Bat  for  myts)-\\yi  raising  and  old  field  school  education  I,  too,  would 
haVe'  mad6  a  vfery  respectable  cracker.  This  was  the  class  of  young 
'me)i'atid  ;in,i4dl8-a^ed  that  first  settled  among  these  historic  hills  and 
Valleys  and  climbed  these  mountains  and  fished  in  these  streams.  By 
and  by  the  fortunate  owners  of  these  lands  received  their  certificates 
and  many  of  them  came  from  all  parts  of  the  State  to  look  up  their 
lots  and  see  how  much  gold  or  how  much  bottom  land  there  was  upon 
them,  but  gold  was  the  principal  attraction.  The  Indians  had  found 
gold  and  washed  it  out  of  the  creeks  and  branches  and  traded  it  in 
small  parcels  to  the  white  man,  and  it  was  believed  that  every  stream 
Avas  lined  with  golden  sand.  This  proved  an  illusion,  and  so  the 
squatters  were  not  disturbed,  or  else  they  bought  their  titles  for  a  song 
and  then  sang  "sweet  home"  of  their  own.  They  built  their  cabins 
and  cleared  their  lands  and  raised  their  scrub  cattle,  and  with  their 
old-fashioned  rifles  kept  the  family  in  game.  Many  of  these  settlers 
could  read  and  Avrite,  but  in  their  day  there  was  but  little  to  read. 
No  newspapers,  and  but  few  books  were  fouud  by  the  hunter's  fireside. 
Their  children  grew  up  the  same  way,  but  what  they  lacked  in  culture 
Ihey  supplied  in  rough  experiences  and  hair-breadth  escapes  and  fire- 
side talk  and  in  the  sports  that  were  either  improvised  or  inherited. 
Pony  races  gander  pullings,  shooting  matches,  coon  hunting  and 
quiltings  had  more  attractions  than  books.  How  they  got  to  using 
such  twisted  language  as  you'uns  and  we'uns  and  inguns  and  mout  and 
gwine  and  all  sich  is  not  known,  nor  was  such  talk  univ^ersal.  When 
such  idioms  began  in  a  family  they  descended  and  spread  out  among 
the  kindred,  but  it  was  not  contagious.  I  know  one  family  now  of 
very  extensive  connections  who  have  a  folk-lore  of  their  own,  and  it 
can  be  traced  back  to  the  old  ancestor  who  died  half  a  century  ago. 
But  these  coi'ruptions  of  language  are  by  no  means  peculiar  to  the 
cracker,  for  the  English  cockneys  and  the  genuine  yankee  have  an 
idiom  quite  as  eccentric,  though  they  do  not  realize  it  and  would  not 
admit  it. 


The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside.  11 

The  Georgia  cracker  was  a  meny-hearted,  uueoncerned,  iudepend- 
<ent  creature,  and  ail  lie  asked  was  to  be  let  alone  by  the  laws  and  the 
outside  world. 

The  justice  court  of  his  beat  was  quite  enough  limitation  for  him. 
He  had  far  more  respect  for  the  old  spectacled  'squire  than  for  the 
highest  court  in  the  nation.  From  this  home-made  tribunal  he  never 
appealed  until  the  young  lawyers  began  to  figure  in  it,  and  seduced 
him  into  the  mysteries  of  the  law  and  the  wonderful  performances  of 
the  writ  of  "sasherary."  Nevertheless,  they  looked  upon  lawyers  as 
suspects  and  parasites,  and  their  descendants  have  the  same  opinion 
still.  The  old  'squire  was  specially  "foment"  them,  and  looked  upon 
the  sasherary  as  an  insult  to  his  judicial  capacity.  Sometimes  he 
Avouid  let  two  young  limbs  of  the  law  argue  a  case  before  him  for  half 
an  hour,  and  then  quietly  remark,  "Gentlemen,  I  judgmenticated  this 
case  last  night  at  home,"  and  would  proceed  with  his  docket.  That 
old  'squire  and  the  preacher  were  quite  enough  to  pilot  these  people 
through  life  and  across  the  dark  river. 

A  few  years  after  they  had  settled  down  as  the  successors  to  the 
Indians  a  class  of  more  substantial  citizens  began  to  look  in  upon  this 
beautiful  country.  They  purchased  the  valley  lands  and  the  river 
bottoms,  and  soon  the  forests  began  to  fall  before  the  ax  of  the  pio- 
neers. Some  of  them  brought  slaves  with  them  and  erected  sawmills 
and  framed  houses  with  glass  windows  to  live  in,  and  the  school  mas- 
ter came  along,  but  the  crackers  were  in  the  majority  and  lived  along 
in  the  same  old  primitive  way.  As  late  as  1847  they  had  gander 
pullings,  and  one  that  I  witnessed  that  summer  lasted  for  two  hours, 
and  the  original  Bill  xirp  was  the  victor.  I  could  have  seen  more  of 
them,  but  I  did  not  care  to,  just  for  the  same  reason  that  a  kind- 
hearted  man  does  not  wish  to  see  but  one  hanging. 

One  Saturday  morning  when  we  arrived  at  Blue  Gizzard  court- 
ground,  the  clans  had  gathered  in  unusual  force.  As  preliminary  to 
the  more  important  contest  that  was  soon  to  come  off,  some  of  the 
boys  were  shooting  at  a  small  piece  of  white  paper  that  was  pinned  to 
a  distant  tree.  Some  were  gathered  around  the  spring.  Some  were 
trying  old  Mother  Tutten's  fresh  cider  and  ginger  cakes  that  she 
ottered  from  the  hindgate  of  her  little  wagon,  and  some  were  sampling 
the  corn  whiskey  that  was  kept  in  a  jug  in  the  little  log  courthouse 
Lard  by.     We  soon  perceived  the  central  and  most  attractive  spot  to 


12  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

be  a  small  tree  with  a  limb  forking  about  ten  feet  from  its  base.  A 
long,  slender,  springy  pole  was  resting  in  the  fork  with  the  large  end 
pressed  to  the  ground  and  fastened  with  stobs  crossed  on  either  side 
and  driven  firmly  in  the  clay.  This  incline  raised  the  long  end  of  the 
pole  quite  high  in  the  air,  and  to  that  end  was  looped  a  plow  line, 
and  to  the  lower  end  of  the  line  another  loop  was  slipped  over  the 
crimson  feet  of  a  venerable  gander  and  left  him  swinging,  head  down- 
wards, just  high  enough  for  a  horseman  to  reach  it  easily  as  he  rode 
underneath.  The  doomed  bird  gave  an  occasional  squawk,  and,  with 
wings  half  open  and  neck  half  bent,  looked  with  inquisitive  alarm 
upon  the  proceedings.  The  feathers  had  been  stripped  from  its  neck 
and  a  thick  coat  of  grease  put  on  instead.  The  undergrowth  had 
been  removed  and  a  running  path  for  the  horsemen  carefully  cleared 
of  all  obstructions.  The  tournament  began  at  11  o'clock.  Twenty 
sovereigns,  mounted  on  their  plow  nags,  ranged  themselves  at  one  end 
of  the  path  and  awaited  the  call  of  their  names  by  the  old  'squu-e, 
who  had  them  written  on  a  fly-leaf  in  the  back  of  his  docket.  No 
man  was  allowed  to  ride  until  he  had  planked  up  a  dollar.  The.  old 
'squire  had  contributed  the  gander  just  out  of  good  will  to  the  boys, 
he  said,  and  he  was  nominated  as  treasurer  and  umpire  and  carried 
the  bag,  and  on  his  decision  the  whole  sum  was  to  be  awarded  the  vic- 
tor. He  had  adjourned  his  court  for  two  hours  to  see  the  fun  and 
keep  down  any  disturbance  of  the  peace.  Eight  "  whippers"  were 
mustered  in,  four  on  each  side  of  the  running  course.  They  were  all 
armed  with  good  long  switches  or  hickorys,  and  their  willing  duty 
was  to  see  to  it  that  no  man's  nag  moved  towards  the  gander  with  less 
alacrity  than  a  gallop.  "  Now,  boys,"  said  he,  "not  a  lope  that  would 
keep  a  nag  a-lopin'  half  an  hour  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  but  a  right 
lively  gallop,  and  if  the  critter  slows  up  any,  you  must  peartin  him 
up  a  little — especially  as  he's  a-nighin'  towards  the  gander." 

The  boys  were  true  sovereigns.  They  were  not  knights.  They 
were  arrayed  in  their  home-made  pants  and  home-made  shirts 
and  home-knit  galluses.  Their  shoes  were  made  at  the  tanners  and 
their  hats  at  the  hatter's.  Coats  and  vests  were  not  in  their 
regalia.  All  the  naborhood  were  their  spectators,  including  many 
women,  some  w^ith  infants  at  the  breast  and  some  with  sons  in  the 
tournament. 

The  gathering  people  exchanged  salutations  and  smiles  and  gave  the 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  13 

family  news  and  gradually  drew  near  the  place  where  the  ainserian 
struggle  was  impending. 

Tlie  old  squire  had  participated  in  some  old-fashioned  musters  in 
his  day,  and  so,  when  everything  was  ready  he  stood  on  a  log  and, 
raising  his  right  hand,  exclaimed:  "Tention  company!  In  the  pro- 
ceedings that  we  are  about  to  proceed  with  it  are  expected  that  every 
man  will  conduct  his  behavior  accordin'  to  what's  far  and  honest — no 
man  are  to  take  any  disadvantage  of  ary  other  man  nor  of  the  gan- 
der. Thar  he  are  hangin'  without  a  friend.  Tote  fair  boys,  tote  fair; 
and  put  him  out  of  misery  as  quick  as  you  ken,  in  reason.  Jack 
Pullum — three  paces  to  the  front — now  ready — aim — charge." 

As  Jack  stuck  his  heels  in  his  pony's  flank  the  crowd  shouted: 
"Charge 'em  Jack!  Charge 'em!"  But  Jack's  critter  wasent  used  to 
charging.  He  rebelled  at  the  go  and  the  "whippers  in"  had  to  come 
to  his  support.  He  dashed  in  and  out  of  the  path  wildly,  but  finally 
took  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  started  down  the  line  on  a  desperate  run 
for  freedom  amid  the  shouts  and  cheers  of  the  multitude.  He  steered 
well  until  he  suddenly  eyed  the  great  white  bird  just  ahead  of  him. 
He  stopped  as  if  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  but  Jack  went  on.  That 
capped  the  climax  of  tumultuous  hilarity.  The  like  of  that  was 
what  they  came  for.  Jack  caught  on  his  hands  and  feet,  and  was 
soon  remounted  and  took  another  start,  and  his  nag  behaved  better, 
but  still  did  not  come  in  reach  of  the  gander,  and  Jack  lost  his 
chance  until  the  second  grand  round.  "We'uns  hain't  got  no  geese 
at  our  house,"  said  he,  "and  my  animal  never  seed  one  afore  as  I 
knows  on." 

"Samuel  Swillin,  to  the  front,"  called  the  'squire.  "Ready,  aim, 
charge."  Sam's  critter  was  more  tractable  and  Sam  got  a  fair  grab, 
but  the  grease  was  too  slick  for  him,  and  as  he  slipped  his  hold  the 
poor  bird  swang  to  and  fro  and  flapped  his  wings  and  squawked  loud 
and  long  at  the  terrible  squeeze  and  the  more  terrible  elongation  of 
his  oesophagus.  Sam  was  congratulated  on  his  eff(:)rt.  He  wiped  his 
fingers  on  a  pine  top,  and  said :  "Yes  I'll  be  dadburued  if  I  wouldent 
have  got  him,  but  the  dingd  thing  was  so  allfired  slickery.  I  was  in 
hopes  that  Jack  Pullum  would  have  got  the  fust  grab  and  sleeked 
offen  some  of  it." 

"Rube  Underwood — to  the  front — ready — aim — charge."  Rube 
had  a  big  mouth,  and  was  freckled  faced  and  red  headed,  and  rode  a 


14  The  Fakni  and  The  Fireside. 

flee-bitten  gray  that  had  been  taught  to  dance  and  prance  around  and 
go  sideways — "jest  to  show  smart,"  as  the  boys  said — and  it  took  the 
animal  sometime  to  be  convinced  that  dancing  and  prancing  wasn't  in 
order  at  this  particular  time.  A  walloping  lick  just  as  he  neared  the 
goal  caused  him  to  make  a  fearful  leap  right  under  the  bird,  and  as  Rube 
had  to  use  both  hands  to  hold  his  seat,  the  gander's  head  collided 
square  in  Rube's  face  and  some  swore  got  in  his  mouth  and  "effen  he 
had  jest  shet  it  he  would  have  had  the  prize."  He  retired  in  good 
order  and  awaited  his  second  turn.  One  by  one  the  riders  came  as 
they  were  called.  One  after  another  got  some  of  the  grease  and  wiped 
it  on  their  horses'  manes,  but  the  muscles  of  the  gander  were  old  and 
tough,  and  every  one  of  the  twenty  had  gone  his  round  and  failed,  when 
the  squire  called  a  halt  and  ordered  another  greasing.  It  was  evident, 
however,  that  some  damage  had  been  done  the  bird,  for  his  wings  hung 
droopy  and  his  voice  was  failing  him.  There  was  a  laceration  of 
sinews  going  on,  and  but  for  the  fresh  greasing  the  sport  would  have 
soon  ended.  "'Tention,  company,"  said  the  'squire.  "The  proceed- 
inses  will  now  take  a  little  recess.  Boys,  you  can  light  and  look  at 
your  saddles,  and  ef  you  want  water  you  can  go  to  the  spring  and  git 
it,  but  don't  wait  long,  for  my  old  gander  are  hangin'  there  without  a 
friend  and  sufferin'." 

The  tournament  was  soon  resumed.  Bill  Arp  was  the  tenth  man 
of  the  second  round.  He  was  the  tenth  of  the  first,  and  many  pre- 
dicted then  that  he  would  break  that  gander's  neck  or  the  plow  line  or 
the  pole,  for  his  grip  was  like  a  vise  and  his  agility  notorious,  but 
somehow  the  gander  ducked  at  the  critical  moment  and  Bill  grabbed 
his  head  instead  of  his  neck  and  made  a  miscarriage. 

As  Bill's  turn  came  again  the  crowd  ejaculated :  ' '  Now,  watch  him 
boys."  "Can't  he  ride,  though ?"  " See  how  he  sots  on  his  critter." 
"Blamed  if  he  ain't  tarred  to  his  nag."  "Look  at  his  eye."  "No 
whippers  for  him."  "He's  a  gwine  to  carry  that  gander's  head  a  half 
a  mile  before  he  stops."  "Farewell,  goose,  I'll  preach  your  funeral." 
"Good-bye  gander." 

And  sure  enough,  Bill  got  the  right  grip  this  time  and  in  a  trice 
had  given  the  neck  a  double  and  something  had  to  break  as  the  pole 
and  the  line  swiftly  followed  his  motion.  For  a  moment  it  seemed 
uncertain  what  would  break  or  what  had  broken  for  the  strained  ten- 
dons popped  like  a  whip  as  Bill's  nag  went  on  at  full  speed.     For  a 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  15 

little  while  the  quivering,  headless  body  swung  backwards  and  for- 
wards and  was  then  at  rest.  Then  came  the  shouts  and  wild  hurrah. 
Bill  was  game  and  so  was  his  critter,  and  as  they  came  round  to  the 
front  the  crowd  gathered  round  to  see  the  gander's  head  that  he  held 
high  in  his  hand — the  warm  blood  trickling  from  the  arteries.  After 
the  jubilee  was  over  Bill  invited  the  nineteen  and  the  'squire  to  old 
:\Iother  Tutteu's  wagon,  and  having  purchased  her  stock  of  cakes  and 
cider  and  the  jug  in  the  courthouse  he  " gin  'em  all  a  treat."  There 
was  not  a  fuss  nor  a  fight  in  all  the  "  proceedinses."  In  a  few  min- 
utes thereafter  the  voice  of  the  bailiff  was  heard  crying  "  Oh  yes,  oh 
yes— the  honorable  court  of  the  825th  deestrict  are  now  met  kordin' 
to  adjournment.     God  save  the  state  and  the  honorable  court." 

These  rough,  rude  people  were  the  original  Georgia  crackers.  They 
constituted  a  large  proportion  of  the  population  of  Cherokee  half  a 
century  ago.  They  were  generally  poor,  but  they  enjoyed  life  more 
than  they  did  money.  They  were  sociable  and  they  were  kind. 
When  one  of  their  number  was  sick  they  nursed  him — when  he  died 
they  dug  a  grave  and  buried  him,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  chap- 
ter. There  was  no  tombstone,  no  epitaph,  no  obituary.  Their  class 
is  fast  disappearing  from  our  midst.  Civilization  has  encroached  upon 
them,  and  now  their  children  and  their  children's  children  have  assim- 
ilated with  a  higher  grade  of  humanity. 

It  Avas  among  these  untutored  people  that  I  cast  my  professional 
fortunes  about  42  years  ago.  I  had  been  studying  law  about  two 
months  and  was  admitted  on  the  sly  on  promise  of  future  diligence— 
or  rather  upon  the  idea  that  if  anybody  was  fool  enough  to  employ 
me  it  was  nobody  else's  business.  Another  young  man  of  my  age  was 
admitted  at  the  same  time  and  he  knew  less  of  law  if  possible  than  I 
did.  I  remember  that  the  first  case  we  had  was  up  in  Shake-rag 
district  where  two  nabors  had  fallen  out  because  one  had  accused  the 
other  of  stealing  his  hog.  And  so  he  sued  him  m  justices  court  for 
thirty  dollars  worth  of  slander.  My  Brother  Alexander  was  employed 
for  the  plaintiff  and  I  for  the  defendant.  I  dident  know  that  a  jus- 
tice court  had  no  jurisdiction  over  a  slander  case.  My  Brother  Alex- 
ander dident  know  it.  The  jury  dident  know  it.  I  rather  suspect 
that  the  old  'squire  knew  it  but  he  wasentthe  man  to  limit  his  own  con- 
sequence and  so  we  rolled  up  our  sleeves  and  waded  in.  My  Brother 
Alexander  made  a  very  fine  speech  for  his  maiden  effort.     He  talked 


16  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

eloquently  to  that  jury  about  the  value  of  a  man's  character — how 
dear  it  was  to  him  and  his  wife  and  his  children  and  how  it  should  be 
transmitted  down  the  line  from  generation  to  generation  pure  and 
untarnished  by  the  foul  breath  of  slander.  And  he  closed  his  speech 
with  an  extract  from  Shakespeare,  wherein  he  said  "He  who  steals  my 
purse  steals  trash,  but  he  who  filches  from  me  my  good  name  takes 
that  which  does  not  enrich  him  but  makes  me  poor  indeed." 

I  was  very  much  alarmed  and  very  much  impressed  with  his  elo- 
quence, and  so  I  concluded  that  my  very  best  chance  was  to  ridicule 
the  whole  business  and  laugh  it  out  of  court  if  I  could,  and  I  told 
that  jury  in  conclusion  that  it  was  impossible  for  my  client  to  slander 
anybody  for  he  had  no  character  of  his  own  to  begin  with,  and 
nobody  would  believe  anything  he  said  whether  he  was  on  oath  or  off 
oath. 

The  old  'squire  charged  the  jury  to  weigh  all  the  evidence  and  to 
agree  on  a  verdik  if  they  could,  and  if  they  couldn't  then  they  mout 
split  the  difference  and  compromise.  The  jury  retired  to  a  log  near 
by  and  cussed  and  discussed  the  matter  and  joked  and  carried  on 
powerful,  and  in  about  half  an  hour  came  back  with  this  verdik, 
"We,  the  juiy,  find  for  the  plaintiff  two  dollars  and  a  half,  onless  the 
defendant  will  take  back  what  he  said." 

Well,  I  didn't  exactly  know  whether  I  had  gained  the  case  or  lost 
it,  but  I  took  my  client  out  doors  and  advised  him  to  take  it  back 
and  save  the  cost.  He  finally  consented  to  do  this,  but  said  he  had 
hearn  that  they  was  gwine  to  make  him  sign  a  lie-bill  and  he'd  be 
dingnation  dadburned  if  he  would  do  it.  So  we  returned  to  the  seat 
of  war  and  I  stated  to  his  honor  that  my  client  had  concluded  to 
accept  the  suggestion  of  the  jury  and  would  take  back  what  he  said. 
The  old  'squire  congratulated  us  on  our  disposition  to  peace  and  har- 
mony, and  just  then  my  client  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  said: 
"But  'squire,  if  I  take  back  what  I  said,  I  want  it  understood  that  he 
must  bring  my  hog  back." 

The  next  question  that  came  up  was  who  should  pay  the  cost.  I 
contended  that  my  client  had  complied  with  the  verdict  of  the  jury 
and  was  not  bound  for  the  costs.  My  Bro.  Alexander  contended  that 
he  complied  a  little  too  late ;  that  he  had  to  be  sued  to  make  him  com- 
ply, and  therefore  he  was  bound  for  the  costs.  The  old  'squire  seemed 
jnuddled  over  the  question,  and  finally  said  that  he  would  leave  it  to 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  17 

the  jury.  So  they  retired  to  the  log  again,  and  in  about  five  minutes 
earns  back  with  this  verdict:  "We,  the  jury,  find  that  the  hnvyers 
sliall  pay  the  cost." 

Well,  I  thought  it  was  all  right— and  I  think  so  yet.  I  planked  up 
my  dollar,  and  my  Bro.  Alexander  paid  his  and  we  mounted  our 
horses  and  rode  home  covered  with  dust  and  glory — and  glory  was  all 
we  ever  received  from  our  clients. 


X 


18  The  Fakm  a:sd  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  Original  "Bill  Arp." 

Some  time  in  the  spring  of  1861,  when  our  Southern  boys  were 
hunting  for  a  fight,  and  felt  like  they  could  whip  all  creation,  Mr. 
Lincoln  issued  a  proclamation  ordering  us  all  to  disperse  and  retire 
within  30  days,  and  to  quit  cavorting  around  in  a  hostile  and  bellige- 
rent manner. 

I  remember  writing  an  answer  to  it  as  though  I  was  a  good  Union 
man  and  a  law-abiding  citizen,  and  was  willing  to  disperse,  if  I  could, 
but  it  was  almost  impossible,  for  the  boys  were  mighty  hot,  and  the 
way  we  made  up  our  military  companies  was  to  send  a  man  down  the 
lines  with  a  bucket  of  water  and  sprinkle  the  boys  as  he  came  to  'em, 
and  if  a  feller  sizzed  like  hot  iron  in  a  slack  trough,  we  took  him,  and 
if  he  didn't  sizz,  we  dident  take  him;  but  still,  nevertheless,  notwith- 
standing, and  so  forth,  if  we  could  possibly  disperse  in  30  days  we 
would  do  so,  but  I  thought  he  had  better  give  us  a  little  more  time, 
for  I  had  been  out  in  old  field  by  myself  and  tried  to  disperse  myself 
and  couldent  do  it. 

I  thought  the  letter  was  right  smart,  and  decently  sarcastic,  and  so  I 
read  it  to  Dr.  Miller  and  Judge  Underwood,  and  they  seemed  to  think 
it  was  right  smart,  too.  About  that  time  I  looked  around  and  saw 
Bill  Arp  standing  at  the  door  with  his  mouth  open  and  a  merry  glisten 
in  his  eye.  As  he  came  forward,  says  he  to  me:  "Squire,  are  you 
gwine  to  print  that?" 

"I  reckon  I  will.  Bill,"  said  I.  "What  name  are  you  gwine  to  put 
to  it?"  said  he.  "I  don't  know  yet,"  said  I;  " I  havent  thought 
about  a  name."  Then  he  brightened  up  and  said:  "Well, 'Squire, 
I  wish  you  would  put  mine,  for  them's  my  sentiments ; "  and  I  promised 
him  that  I  would. 

So  I  did  not  rob  Bill  Arp  of  his  good  name,  but  took  it  on  request, 
and  now,  at  this  late  day,  when  the  moss  has  covered  his  grave,  I  will 
record  some  pleasant  memories  of  a  man  w'hose  notoriety  was  not 


The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside,  '  19 

extensive,  but  who  filled  up  a  gap  that  was  open,  and  who  brightened 
up  the  flight  of  many  an  hour  in  the  good  old  times,  say  from  30  to 
40  years  ago. 

He  was  a  small,  sinewy  man,  weighing  about  130  pounds,  as  active 
as  a  cat,  and  always  presenting  a  bright  and  cheerful  face.  He  had 
an  amiable  disposition,  a  generous  heart,  and  was  as  brave  a  man  as 
nature  ever  makes. 

He  was  an  humble  man  and  unlettered  in  books;  never  went  to 
school  but  a  month  or  two  in  his  life,  and  could  neither  read  nor  write; 
but  still  he  had  more  than  his  share  of  common  sense ;  more  than  his 
share  of  good  mother  w'it,  and  was  always  Avelcome  when  he  came 
about. 

Lawyers  and  doctors  and  editors,  and  such  gentlemen  of  leisure 
who  used  to,  in  the  olden  time,  sit  around  and  chat  and  have  a  good 
time,  always  said,  "come  in  Bill,  and  take  a  seat;"  and  Bill  seemed 
grateful  for  the  compliment,  aud  with  a  conscious  humility  squatted 
on  about  half  the  chair  and  waited  for  questions.  The  bearing  of  the 
man  was  one  of  reverence  for  his  superiors  and  thankfulness  for  their 
notice. 

Bill  Arp  was  a  contented  man — contented  with  his  humble  lot. 
He  never  grumbled  or  complained  at  anything;  he  had  desires  and 
ambition,  but  it  did  not  trouble  him.  He  kept  a  feny  for  a  wealthy 
gentleman,  who  lived  a  few  miles  above  town,  on  the  Etowah  river, 
and  he  cultivated  a  small  portion  of  his  land ;  but  the  ferry  was  not 
of  much  consequence,  and  when  Bill  could  slip  off  to  town  and  hear 
the  lawyers  talk,  he  w^ould  turn  over  the  boat  and  the  poles  to  his 
wife  or  his  children,  and  go.  I  have  known  him  to  take  a  back  seat 
in  the  court  house  for  a  day  at  a  time,  and  with  a  face  all  greedy  for 
entertainment,  listen  to  the  learned  speeches  of  the  lawyers  and  charge 
of  the  court,  and  go  home  happy,  and  be  able  to  tell  to  his  admiring 
family  what  had  transpired.  He  had  the  greatest  reverence  for 
Colonel  Johnston,  his  landlord,  and  always  said  that  he  would  about 
as  leave  belong  to  him  as  to  be  free;  "for,"  said  he,  "Mrs.  Johnston 
throAvs  away  enough  old  clothes  and  second-hand  vittels  to  support  my 
children,  and  they  are  always  nigh  enough  to  pick  'em  up." 

Bill  Arp  lived  in  Chulio  district;  Ave  had  eleven  districts  in  the 
county,  and  they  had  all  such  names  as  Pop-skull,  and  Blue-gizzard, 
and  Wolf-skin,   and  Shake-rag,  and  Wild-cat,  and  Possum-trot,  but 


20  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

Bill  lived  and  reigned  in  Chulio.  Evei'v  district  had  its  best  man  in 
those  days,  and  Bill  was  the  best  man  in  Chulio.  He  could  out-run, 
out-jump,  out-swim,  out-rastle,  out-ride,  out-shoot  anybody,  and  was  so 
far  ahead  that  everybody  else  had  given  it  up,  and  Bill  reigned 
supreme.  He  put  on  no  airs  about  this,  and  his  nabors  were  all 
his  friends. 

But  there  was  another  district  adjoining,  and  it  had  its  best  man, 
too.  One  Ben  McGinnis  ruled  the  boys  of  that  beat,  and  after  awhile 
it  began  to  be  whispered  around  that  Ben  wasn't  satisfied  with  his 
limited  territory,  but  would  like  to  have  a  small  tackle  with  Bill  Arp. 
Ben  was  a  pretentious  man.  He  weighed  about  165  pounds,  and 
was  considered  a  regular  bruiser.  When  Ben  hit  a  man  he  meant 
business,  and  his  adversary  was  hurt — badly  hurt,  and  Ben  was  glad 
of  it.  But  when  Bill  Arp  hit  a  man  he  was  sorry  for  him,  and  if  he 
knocked  him  down,  he  would  rather  help  him  up  and  brush  the  dirt 
off  his  clothes  than  swell  around  in  triumph.  Fighting  was  not  very 
common  with  either.  The  quicker  a  man  whips  a  fight  the  less  of  it 
he  has  to  do,  and  both  Ben  and  Bill  had  settled  their  standing  most 
effectually.  Bill  was  satisfied  with  his  honors,  but  Ben  was  not,  for 
there  was  many  a  Ransy  Sniffle  who  lived  along  the  line  between  the 
districts,  and  carried  news  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and  made  up  the 
coloring,  and  soon  ic  was  narrated  around  that  Ben  and  Bill  had  to 
meet  and  settle  it. 

The  court-grounds  of  that  day  consisted  of  a  little  log  shanty  and  a 
shelf.  The  shanty  had  a  dirt  floor  and  a  puncheon  seat,  and  a  slab 
fbr  the  'Squire's  docket,  and  the  shelf  was  outside  for  the  whiskey. 

The  whiskey  was  kept  in  a  gallon  jug,  and  that  held  just  about 
enough  for  the  day's  business.  Most  every  body  took  a  dram  in  those 
days,  but  very  few  took  too  much,  unless,  indeed,  a  dram  was  too 
much.  It  was  very  uncommon  to  see  a  man  drunk  at  a  country  court- 
ground.  Pistols  were  unknown,  and  bowie-knives  and  brass-knuckles 
and  sling-shots  and  all  other  devices  that  gave  one  man  an  artful 
advantage  over  another. 

When  Colonel  Johnston,  who  was  Bill  Arp's  landlord,  and  Major 
Ayer  and  myself  got  to  Chulio,  Bill  Arp  was  there,  and  was  pleas- 
antly howdying  with  his  nabors,  when  suddenly  we  discovered  Ben 
McGinnis  arriving  upon  the  ground.  He  hitched  his  horse  to  a  swing- 
ing limb  and  dismounted  and  began  trampoosiug  around,  and  every 


■1  ///;  f  .  f 


t-s    -' 


The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside.  23 

little  crowd  he  got  to,  he  would  lean  forward  in  an  insolent  manner 
and  say,  "Anybody  here  got  anything  agin  Ben  McGinnis?  Ef  they 
have,  I  golly,  I'll  give  'em  five  dollars  to  hit  that ;  I  golly,  I  dare  any- 
body to  hit  that,"  and  he  would  point  to  his  forehead  with  an  air  of 
insolent  defiance. 

Bill  Arp  was  standing  by  us  and  I  thought  he  looked  a  little  more 
serious  than  I  ever  had  seen  him.  Frank  Ayer  says  to  him,  "Bill,  I 
see  that  Ben  is  coming  around  here  to  pick  a  fight  Avith  you,  and  I 
want  to  say  that  you  have  got  no  cause  of  quarrel  with  him,  and  if  he 
comes,  do  you  just  let  him  come  and  go,  that's  all."  Col.  Johnston 
says,  "Bill,  he  is  too  big  for  you,  and  your  own  beat  knows  you,  and 
and  you  havn't  done  anything  against  Ben,  and  so  I  advise  you  to  let 
him  pass ;  do  you  hear  me  ?" 

By  this  time  Bill's  nervous  system  was  all  in  a  quiver.  His  face 
had  an  air  of  rigid  determination,  and  he  replied  humbly,  but  firmly, 
"Col.  Johnston,  I  love  you,  and  I  respect  you,  too;  but  if  Ben 
McGinnis  comes  up  here  outen  his  beat,  and  into  my  beat,  and  me  not 
having  done  nothing  agin  him,  and  he  dares  me  to  hit  him,  I'm  going 
to  hit  him,  if  it  is  the  last  lick  I  ever  strike.  I'm  no  phist  puppy  dog, 
sir,  that  he  should  come  out  of  his  deestrict  to  bully  me." 

I've  seen  Bill  Arp  in  battle,  and  he  was  a  hero.  I've  seen  him  when 
shot  and  shell  rained  around  him,  and  he  was  cool  and  calm,  and  the 
same  old  smile  was  upon  his  featurrs,  but  I  never  saw  him  as  intensely 
excited  as  he  was  that  moment  when  Ben  McGinnis  approached  us, 
and,  addressing  himself  to  Bill  Arp,  said,  "I  golly,  I  dare  anybody 
to  hit  that." 

As  Ben  straightened  up,  Bill  let  fly  with  his  hard,  bony  fist  right 
in  his  left  eye,  and  followed  it  up  with  another  so  quick  that  the  two 
blows  seemed  as  one.  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  and  never  will  know  ; 
but  in  less  than  a  second.  Bill  had  him  down  and  was  on  him,  and  his 
fists  and  his  elbows  and  his  knees  seemed  all  at  work.  He  afterwards 
said  that  his  knees  worked  on  Ben's  bread  basket,  which  he  knew  was 
his  weakest  part.  Ben  hollered  "  enough"  in  due  time,  -which  was  con- 
sidered honorable  to  do  when  a  feller  had  enough,  and  Bill  helped 
him  up  and  brushed  the  dirt  oft'  his  clothes,  and  said,  "  Now,- Ben,  is 
it  all  over  betw-ixt  us,  is  you  and  me  all  right  ?  "  And  Ben  said,  "  It's 
all  right  'twixt  you  and  me.  Bill ;  and  you  are  much  of  a  gentleman." 


24  The  Farm  asd  The  Fireside. 

Bill  invited  all  hands  up  to  the  shelf,  and  they  took  a  drink,  and  he 
and  Ben  were  friends. 

This  is  enough  of  Bill  Arp — the  original,  the  simon  pure.  He  was 
a  good  soldier  in  war.  He  was  the  wit  and  the  wag  of  the  camp- 
fires,  and  made  many  a  homesick  youth  laugli  away  his  melancholy. 
He  was  a  good  citizen  in  peace.  When  told  that  his  son  Avas  killed  he 
looked  no  surprise,  but  simply  said:  "Major,  did  he  die  all  right?" 
When  assured  that  he  did,  Bill  wiped  away  a  falling  tear  and  said,  "I 
only  wanted  to  tell  his  mother." 

You  may  talk  about  heroes  and  heroines ;  I  have  seen  all  sorts,  and 
so  has  most  everybody  who  was  in  the  war,  but  I  never  saw  a  more 
devoted  heroine  than  Bill  Arp's  wife.  She  was  a  very  humble 
woman,  very,  and  she  loved  her  husband  with  a  love  that  was  passing 
strange.  I  have  seen  that  woman  in  town,  three  miles  from  her 
home,  hunting  around  by  night  for  her  husband,  going  from  one 
saloon  to  another,  and  in  her  kind,  loving  voice  inquiring  "is  Wil- 
liam here?"  Blessings  on  that  poor  woman;  I  have  almost  cried  for 
her  many  a  time.  Poor  William,  how  she  loved  him.  How  tenderly 
would  she  take  him,  when  she  found  him,  and  lead  him  home,  and 
bathe  his  head  and  put  him  to  bed.  She  always  looked  pleased  and 
thankful  when  asked  about  him,  and  would  say,  "he  is  a  good  little 
man,  but  you  know  he  has  his  failmgs."  She  loved  Bill  and  he  loved 
her;  he  was  weak  and  she  was  strong.  There  are  some  such  women 
now,  I  reckon.     I  know  there  are  some  such  men. 


Big  Johx  Lamkxts  thk  "War. 


The  Faeji  and  The  Fuieslde.  27 


CHAPTER  III. 


"  Big  John." 

"  Big  John  "  was  one  of  the  earliest  settlers  of  Rome,  and  one  of 
her  most  notable  men.  For  several  years  he  was  known  by  his  proper 
name  of  John  Underwood,  but  when  another  John  Underwood  moved 
there,  the  old  settler  had  to  be  identified  by  his  superior  size,  and 
gradually  lost  his  surname,  and  was  known  far  and  near  as  "Big 
John."  The  new  comer  was  a  man  of  large  frame,  weighing  about 
225  pounds,  but  Big  John  pulled  down  the  scales  at  a  hundred  pounds 
more.  He  had  shorter  arms  and  shorter  legs,  but  his  circumference 
was  correspondingly  immense.  He  was  notable  for  his  humor  and 
his  good  humor.  The  best  town  jokes  came  from  his  jolly,  fertile 
fancy,  and  his  comments  on  men  and  things  were  always  original,  and 
as  terse  and  vigorous  as  ever  came  from  the  brain  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
He  was  a  diamond  in  the  rough.  He  had  lived  a  pioneer  among  the 
Indians  of  Cherokee,  and  it  was  said  fell  m  love  with  an  Indian  maid, 
the  daughter  of  old  Tustenuggee,  a  limited  chief,  and  never  married 
because  he  could  not  marry  her.  But  if  his  disappointment  preyed 
upon  his  heart,  it  did  not  prey  long  upon  the  region  that  enclosed  it, 
for  he  continued  to  expand  his  proportions.  He  was  a  good  talker 
and  an  earnest  laugher — whether  he  laughed  and  grew  fat,  or  grew 
fat  and  laughed,  the  doctors  could  not  tell  which  was  cause  and  which 
was  effect,  and  it  is  still  in  doubt,  but  I  have  heard  wise  men  affirm 
that  laughing  was  the  fat  man's  safety-valve,  that  if  he  did  not  laugh 
and  shake  and  vibrate  frequently,  he  would  grow  fatter  and  fatter, 
until  his  epidermic  cuticle  could  not  contain  his  oleaginous  cor- 
porosity. 

Big  John  had  no  patience  with  the  war,  and  when  he  looked  upon 
the  boys  strutting  around  in  uniform,  and  fixing  up  their  canteens  and 
haversacks,  he  seemed  as  much  astonished  as  disgusted.  He  sat  in  his 
big  chair  on  the  sidewalk,  and  would  remark,  "I  don't  see  any  fun  in 
the  like  of  that.     Somebody  is  going  to  be  hurt,  and  fighting  don't 


28  The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside. 

prove  anything.  Some  of  our  best  people  in  this  town  are  kin  to 
them  fellers  up  North,  and  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  tearing  up  families 
by  a  fight."  He  rarely  looked  serious  or  solemn,  but  the  impending 
strife  seemed  to  settle  him.  "Boys,"  said  he,  "I  hope  to  God  this 
thing  -will  be  fixed  up  without  a  fight,  for  fighting  is  a  mighty  bad 
business,  and  I  never  knowed  it  to  do  any  good." 

Big  John  had  had  a  little  war  experience — that  is,  he  had  volun- 
teered in  a  company  to  assist  in  the  forcible  removal  of  the  Cherokees 
to  the  far  west  in  1835.  It  was  said  that  he  was  no  beligerent  then, 
but  wanted  to  see  the  maiden  that  he  loved  a  safe  transit,  and  so  he 
escorted  the  old  chief  and  his  clan  as  far  as  Tuscumbia,  and  then  broke 
down  and  returned  to  Ross  Landing  on  the  Tennessee  river.  He  was  too 
heavy  to  march,  and  when  he  arrived  at  the  Landing,  a  prisoner  was 
l^ut  in  his  charge  for  safe  keeping,  Ross  Lauding  is  Chattanooga  now, 
and  John  Ross  lived  there,  and  was  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Chero- 
kees. The  prisoner  was  his  guest,  and  his  name  was  John  Howard 
Payne.  He  was  suspected  of  trying  to  instigate  the  Cherokees  to 
revolt  and  fight,  and  not  leave  their  beautiful  forest  homes  on  the 
Tennessee  and  Coosa  and  Oostanaula  and  the  Etowah  and  Connasauga 
rivers.  He  brought  Payne  back  as  far  as  ISTew  Echota,  or  Kew  Town,  as 
it  was  called,  an  Indian  settlement  on  the  Coosa wattee,  a  few  miles  east 
of  Calhoun,  as  now  known.  There  he  kept  the  author  of  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home  "  under  guard,  or  on  his  parol  of  honor,  for  three  weeks, 
and  night  after  night  slept  with  him  in  his  tent,  and  listened  to  his 
music  upon  the  violin,  and  heard  him  sing  his  own  sad  songs  until 
orders  came  for  his  discharge,  and  Payne  was  sent  under  escort  to 
Washington. 

Many  a  time  have  I  heard  Big  John  recite  his  sad  adventures.  "It 
was  a  most  distressive  business,"  said  he.  "Them  Injuns  was  heart- 
broken; I  always  knowd  an  Injun  loved  his  hunting-ground  and  his 
rivers,  but  I  never  knowd  how  much  they  loved  'em  before.  You 
know  they  killed  Ridge  for  consentin'  to  the  treaty.  They  killed  him 
on  the  first  day's  march  and  they  wouldent  bury  him.  We  soldiers 
had  to  stop  and  dig  a  grave  and  put  him  away.  John  Ross  and  John 
Ridge  were  the  sons  of  two  Scotchmen,  who  came  over  here  when  they 
were  young  men  and  mixed  up  with  these  tribes  and  got  their  good 
will.  These  two  boys  were  splendid  looking  men,  tall  and  handsome, 
with  long  auburn  hair,  and  thev  were  active  and  stronar,  and  could 


TiiK  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  29 

shoot  a  bow  equal  to  the  best  bowmau  of  the  tribe,  and  they  beat  'em 
all  to  pieces  on  the  cross-bow.  They  married  the  daughters  of  the  old 
chiefs,  and  when  the  old  chiefs  died  they  just  fell  into  line  and  suc- 
ceeded to  the  old  chiefs'  places,  and  the  tribes  liked  'em  mighty  well, 
for  they  were  good  men  and  made  good  chiefs.  Well,  you  see  Ross 
dident  like  the  treaty.  He  said  it  wasent  fair  and  that  the  price  of  the 
territory  was  too  low,  and  the  fact  is  he  dident  want  to  go  at  all.  There 
are  the  ruins  of  his  old  home  now  over  there  in  DeSoto,  close  to  Rome, 
and  I  tell  you  he  was  a  king.  His  word  was  the  law  of  the  Injun 
nations,  and  he  had  their  love  and  their  respect.  His  half-breed  chil- 
dren were  the  purtiest  things  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  Well,  Ridge 
lived  up  the  Oostanaula  river  about  a  mile,  and  he  was  a  good  man,  too. 
Ross  and  Ridge  always  consulted  about  everything  for  the  good  of  the 
tribes,  but  Ridge  was  a  more  milder  man  than  Ross,  and  was  more 
easily  persuaded  to  sign  the  treaty  that  gave  the  lands  to  the  State  and 
to  take  other  lands  away  out  to  the  Mississippi. 

"Well,  it  took  us  a  mouth  to  get  'em  all  together  and  begin  the 
march  to  the  Mississippi,  and  they  wouldn't  march  then.  The  women 
would  go  out  of  line  and  set  down  in  the  woods  and  go  to  grieving, 
and  you  may  believe  it  or  not,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  is  a  fact,  we 
started  with  14,000,  and  4,000  of  'em  died  before  we  got  to  Tuscum- 
bia.  They  died  on  the  side  of  the  road;  they  died  of  broken  hearts; 
they  died  of  starvation,  for  they  wouldn't  eat  a  thing;  they  just  died 
all  along  the  way.  We  didn't  make  more  than  five  miles  a  day  on  the 
march,  and  my  company  didn't  do  much  but  dig  graves  and  bury 
Injuns  all  the  way  to  Tuscumbia.  They  died  of  grief  and  broken 
hearts,  and  no  mistake.  An  Indian's  heart  is  tender,  and  his  love  is 
strong;  it's  his  nature.  I'd  rather  risk  an  Injun  for  a  true  friend  than 
a  white  man.  He  is  the  best  friend  in  the  world,  and  the  worst 
enemy.  He  has  got  more  gratitude  and  more  revenge  in  him  than 
"  anybody." 

Big  John's  special  comfort  was  a  circus.  He  never  missed  one,  and 
it  was  a  good  part  of  the  show  to  see  him  laugh  and  shake  and  spread 
his  magnificent  face. 

He  took  no  pleasure  in  the  quarrels  of  mankind,  and  never  backed 
a  man  in  a  fight ;  but  when  two  dogs  locked  teeth,  or  two  bulls  locked 
horns,  or  two  game  chickens  locked  spurs,  he  always  liked  to  be  about. 
"It  is  their  nature  to  fight,"  said  he,   "  and  let  'em  fight."     He  took 


30  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

delight  in  watching  dogs  and  commenting  on  their  sense  and  disposi- 
tions. He  compared  them  to  the  men  about  town,  and  drew  some 
humorous  analogies.  "There  is  Jimmy  Jones,"  said  he,  "who 
ripped  and  splurged  around  because  Georgia  wouldn't  secede  in  a  min- 
ute and  a  half,  and  he  swore  he  was  going  over  to  South  Carolina  to 
fight ;  and  when  Georgia  did  secede  shore  enough,  he  didn't  join  the 
army  at  all,  and  always  had  some  cussed  excuse,  and  when  conscrip- 
tion came  along,  he  got  on  a  detail  to  make  potash,  con-ding  him,  and 
when  that  played  out  he  got  him  a  couple  of  track  dogs  and  got 
detailed  to  catch  runaway  prisoners.  Just  so  I've  seen  dogs  run  up 
and  down  the  palings  like  they  was  dying  to  get  to  one  another,  and 
so  one  day  I  picked  up  my  dog  by  the  nap  of  the  neck  and  dropped 
him  over  on  the  outside.  I  never  knowed  he  could  jump  that  fence 
before,  but  he  bounced  back  like  an  Indian  rubber  ball,  and  the 
other  dog  streaked  it  down  the  sidewalk  like  the  dickens  was  after 
him.  Dogs  are  like  folks,  and  folks  are  like  dogs,  and  a  heap  of  'em 
want  the  palings  between.  Jack  Bogin  used  to  strut  round  and  whip 
the  boys  in  his  beat,  and  kick  'em  around,  because  he  knew  he  could  do 
it,  for  he  had  the  most  muscle ;  but  he  couldn't  look  a  brave  man  in 
the  eye,  muscle  or  no  muscle,  and  I've  seen  him  shut  up  quick  Avhen 
he  met  one.  A  man  has  got  to  be  right  to  be  brave,  and  I  had 
rather  see  a  bully  get  a  licking  than  to  eat  sugar." 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  31 


CHAPTER  IV. 


The  Roman  Runagee. 

Atlanta,  Ga.,  May  22,  1864. 

Mr.  Editor:  "Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow,"  as  some- 
body said,  I  am  seeking  a  log  in  some  vast  wilderness,  a  lonely  roost 
in  some  Okeefenokee  swamp,  where  the  foul  invaders  cannot  travel 
nor  their  pontoon  bridges  float.  If  Mr.  Shakespeare  were  correct 
when  he  wrote  that  "sweet  are  the  juices  of  adversity,"  then  it  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  me  and  my  folks,  and  many  others,  must 
have  some  sweetening  to  spare.  When  a  man  is  aroused  in  the  dead 
of  night,  and  smells  the  approach  of  the  foul  invader;  when  he  feels 
constrained  to  change  his  base  and  become  a  runagee  from  his  home, 
leaving  behind  him  all  those  ususary  things,  which  hold  body  and  soul 
together ;  when  he  looks,  perhaps  the  last  time,  upon  his  lovely  home 
\Nhere  he  has  been  for  many  delightful  years  raising  children  and 
chickens,  strawberries  and  peas,  lye  soap  and  onions,  and  all  such 
luxuries  of  this  sublunary  life;  when  he  imagines  every  unusual 
sound  to  be  the  crack  of  his  earthly  doom ;  when  from  such  influences 
he  begins  a  dignified  retreat,  but  soon  is  constrained  to  leave  the  dig- 
nity behind,  and  get  away  without  regard  to  the  order  of  his  going — 
if  there  is  any  sweet  juice  in  the  like  of  that,  I  haven't  been  able  to 
see  it.  No,  Mr.  Editor,  such  scenes  never  happened  in  Bill  Shak- 
speare's  day,  or  he  wouldn't  have  written  that  line. 

I  don't  know  that  the  lovely  inhabitants  of  your  beautiful  city  need 
any  forewarnings,  to  make  'em  avoid  the  breakers  upon  which  our 
vessel  was  wrecked;  but  for  fear  they  should  some  day  shake  their 
gory  locks  at  me,  I  will  make  public  a  brief  allusion  to  some  of  the 
painful  circumstances  which  lately  occurred  in  the  eternal  city. 

Not  many  days  ago  the  everlasting  Yankees  (may  they  live  always 
when  the  devil  gets  'em,)  made  a  valiant  assault  upon  the  city  of  the 
hills — the  eternal  city,  where  for  a  hundred  years  the  Indian  rivers 
have  been  blending  their  waters  peacefully  together — where  the 
Cherokee  children  built  their  flutter  mills,   and  toyed  with  frogs  and 


32  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

tadpoles  whilst  these  majestic  streams  were  but  little  spring  branches 
babbling  along  their  sandy  beds.  For  three  days  and  nights  our 
valiant  troops  had  beat  back  the  foul  invader,  and  saved  our  pullets 
from  their  devouring  jaws.  For  three  days  and  nights  we  bade 
farewell  to  every  fear,  luxuriating  upon  the  triumph  of  our  arms, 
and  the  sweet  juices  of  our  strawberries  and  cream.  For  three  days 
and  nights  fresh  troops  from  the  South  poured  into  our  streets  with 
shouts  that  made  the  welkin  ring,  and  the  turkey  bumps  rise  all  over 
the  flesh  of  our  people.  We  felt  that  Rome  was  safe — secure  against 
the  assault  ot  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  which  last  individual 
is  supposed  to  be  that  horde  of  foul  invaders  who  are  seeking  to  flank 
us  out  of  both  bread  and  existence. 

But  alas  for  human  hopes!  Man  that  is  born  of  woman  (and  there 
is  no  other  sort  that  I  know  of)  has  but  a  few  days  that  is  not  full  of 
trouble.  Although  the  troops  did  shout ;  although  their  brass  band 
music  swelled  upon  the  gale  ;  although  the  turkey  bumps  rose  as  the 
welkin  rung ;  although  the  commanding  general  assured  us  that  Rome 
was  to  be  held  at  every  hazard,  and  that  on  to-morrow  the  big  battle  was 
to  be  fought,  and  the  foul  invaders  hurled  all  howling  and  bleeding 
to  the  shores  of  the  Ohio,  yet  it  transpired  somehow  that  on  Tuesday 
night  the  military  evacuation  of  our  city  was  peremptorily  ordered. 
No  note  of  warning — no  whisper  of  alarm — no  hint  of  the  morrow 
came  from  the  muzzled  lips  of  him  who  had  lifted  our  hopes  so  high. 
Calmly  and  coolly  we  smoked  our  killikinick,  and  surveyed  the 
embarkation  of  troops,  construing  it  to  be  some  grand  manoeuvre  of 
military  strategy.  About  ten  o'clock  we  retired  to  rest,  to  dream  of 
to-morrow's  victory.  Sleep  soon  overpowered  us  like  the  fog  that 
covered  the  earth,  but  nary  bright  dream  had  come,  nary  vision  of  free- 
dom and  glory.  On  the  contrary,  our  rest  was  uneasy — strawberries 
and  cream  seemed  to  be  holding  secession  meetings  within  our  corporate 
limits,  when  suddenly,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  a  friend  aroused  us 
from  our  slumber  and  put  a  new  phase  upon  the  "situation."  General 
Johnston  was  retreating,  and  the  foul  invaders  were  to  pollute  our 
sacred  soil  the  next  morning.  Then  came  the  tug  ot  war.  With  hot 
and  feverish  haste  we  started  out  in  search  of  transportation,  but  nary 
transport  could  be  had.  Time-honored  friendship,  past  favors  shown, 
everlasting  gratitude,  numerous  small  and  lovely  children,  Confederate 
currency,   new  issues,   bank  bills,  black  bottles,   aud  all  influences 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  33 

were  urged  aud  used  to  secure  a  corner  in  a  car  but  nary  corner — too 
late — too  late — the  pressure  for  time  was  fearful  aud  tremendous — 
the  steady  clock  moved  on — no  Joshua  about  to  lengthen  out  the 
night,  no  rolling  stock,  no  steer,  no  mule.  With  reluctant  and  liasty 
steps,  Ave  prepared  to  make  good  our  exit  by  that  overland  line  which 
railroads  do  not  control,  nor  A.  Q,  Ms  impress. 

"With  our  families  aud  a  little  clothing,  we  crossed  the  Etowah  bridge 
about  the  break  of  day  on  Wednesday,  the  17  th  of  May,  1864, 
exactly  a  year  and  two  weeks  from  the  time  when  General  Forrest 
marched  in  triumph  through  our  streets.  By  and  by  the  bright  rays 
of  the  morning  sun  dispersed  the  heavy  fog,  which  like  a  pall  of 
death  had  overspread  all  nature.  Then  were  exhibited  to  our  afliicted 
gaze  a  highway  crowded  with  wagons  and  teams,  cattle  and  hogs, 
niggers  and  dogs,  women  and  children,  all  moving  in  disheveled  haste 
to  parts  unknown.  Mules  were  braying,  cattle  were  lowing,  hogs 
were  squealing,  sheep  were  blating,  children  were  crying,  wagoners 
were  cursing,  whips  were  popping,  and  horses  stalling,  but  still  the 
grand  caravan  moved  on.  Everybody  was  continually  looking 
behind,  and  driving  before — everybody  wanted  to  kuow  everything, 
and  nobody  knew  anything.  Ten  thousand  wild  rumors  filled  the  cir- 
cumambient air.  The  everlasting  cavalry  was  there,  and  as  they  dashed 
to  and  fro,  gave  false  alarms  of  the  enemy  being  in  hot  pursuit. 

About  this  most  critical  juncture  of  affairs,  some  philanthropic 
friend  passed  by  with  the  welcome  news  that  the  bridge  was  burnt, 
and  the  danger  all  over.  Then  ceased  the  panic ;  then  came  the  peace- 
ful calm  of  heroes  after  the  strife  of  war  is  over — then  exclaimed 
Frank  Ralls,  my  demoralized  friend,  "Thank  the  good  Lord  for  that. 
Bill,  let's  return  thanks  aud  stop  and  rest — boys  let  me  get  out  and  lie 
down.  I'm  as  humble  as  a  dead  nigger — I  tell  you  the  truth — I  sung 
the  long  metre  doxology  as  I  crossed  the  Etowah  bridge,  and  I  expected 
to  be  a  dead  man  in  fifteen  minutes.  Be  thankful,  fellows,  let's  all 
be  thankful — the  bridge  is  burnt,  and  the  river  is  three  miles  deep. 
Good  sakes,  do  you  reckon  those  Yankees  can  swim  ?  Get  up,  boys 
— let's  drive  ahead  and  keep  moving — I  tell  you  there's  no  accounting 
for  anything  with  blue  clothes  on  these  days — ding'd  if  I  ain't  afraid 
of  a  blue-tailed  fly." 

With  a  most  distressing  flow  of  language,  he  continued  his  rhapsody 
of  random  remarks. 


34  The  Fakm  and  Thk  Fikeside. 

Then  there  was  that  trump  cf  good  fellows,  Big  John — as  clever  as 
he  is  fat,  and  as  fat  as  old  Falstaff — with  inde/adgable  diligence  he  had 
secured,  as  a  last  resort,  a  one-horse  steer  spring  wagon,  with  a  low, 
flat  body  sitting  on  two  rickety  springs.  Being  mounted  thereon,  he 
was  urging  a  more  speedy  locomotion  by  laying  on  to  the  carcass  of 
the  poor  old  steer  with  a  thrash-pole  ten  feet  long.  Having  stopped 
at  a  house,  he  procured  a  two-inch  auger,  and  boring  a  hole  through 
the  dashboard,  pulled  the  steer's  tail  through  and  tied  up  the  end  in  a 
knot.  "My  running  gear  is  weak,"  said  he,  "but  I  don't  intend  to 
be  stuck  in  the  mud.  If  the  body  holds  good,  and  the  steer  don't 
pull  out  his  tail,  why,  Bill,  I  am  safe."  "My  friend,"  said  I,  "will 
you  please  to  inform  me  what  port  you  are  bound  for,  and  when  you 
expect  to  reach  it?"  "No  port  at  all.  Bill,"  said  he,  "I  am  going 
dead  strait  to  the  big  Stone  Mountain.  I  am  going  to  get  on  the  top 
and  roll  rocks  down  upon  all  mankind.  I  now  forewarn  every  living 
thing  not  to  come  there  until  this  everlasting  foolishness  is  over."  He 
was  then  but  three  miles  from  town,  and  had  been  traveling  the  live- 
long night.  Ah,  my  big  friend,  thought  I,  when  wilt  thou  arrive  at 
thy  journey's  end  ?  In  the  language  of  Patrick  Henry,  will  it  be  the 
next  week  or  the  next  year?  Oh,  that  I  could  write  a  poem,  I  would 
embalm  thy  honest  face  in  epic  verse.  But  I  was  in  a  right  smart 
hurry  myself,  and  only  had  time  to  drop  his  memory  a  passing  rhyme. 

Farewell,  Big  John,  Farewell ! 

'Twas  painful  to  my  heart 
To  see  thy  chances  of  escape, 

Was  that  old  steer  and  cart. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  now, 

With  axletrees  all  hroke. 
And  wheels  with  nary  huh  at  all, 

And  hubs  with  nary  spoke. 

But  though  the  mud  is  deep. 

Thy  wits  will  never  fail; 
That  faithful  steer  wnll  pull  thee  out, 

If  he  don't  pull  out  his  tail. 

Mr.  Editor,  under  such  variegated  scenes  we  reported  progress, 
and  in  course  of  time  arrived  under  the  shadow  of  thy  city's  wings, 
abounding  in  gratitude  and  joy. 


TiiK  Fakm  and  Thio  Fikesidk.  37 

With  ^weet  aud  patient  sadness,  the  tender  hearts  of  our  wives  and 
daughters  beat  luournfully  as  we  moved  along.  Often,  alas,  how  often 
was  the  tear  seen  swimming  in  the  eye,  and  the  lips  quivering  with 
emotion,  as  memory  lingered  around  deserted  homes,  and  thoughts 
dwelt  upon  past  enjoyments  and  future  desolation.  We  plucked  the 
wild  flowers  as  we  passed,  sang  songs  of  merriment,  exchanged  our  wit 
with  children — smothering,  by  every  means,  the  sorrow  of  our  fate. 
These  things,  together  with  the  comic  events  that  occurred  by  the  way, 
were  the  safety-valves  that  saved  the  poor  heart  from  bursting.  But 
for  these  our  heads  would  have  been  fountains  and  our  hearts  a  river 
of  tears.  Oh,  if  some  kind  friend  would  set  our  retreat  to  music,  it 
would  be  greatly  appreciated  indeed.  It  should  be  a  plaintiff  tune, 
interspersed  with  occasional  comic  notes,  and  frequent  fuges  scattered 
promiscuously  along. 

Our  retreat  was  conducted  in  excellent  good  order,  after  tJie  bridge 
tvas  burnt  If  there  was  any  straggling  at  all,  they  straggled  ahead. 
It  would  have  delighted  General  Johnston  to  have  seen  the  alacrity  of 
our  movements. 

But  I  must  close  this  melancholy  narrative,  and  hasten  to  subscribe 
myself  Your  runagee.  Bill  Akp. 

P.  S. — Tip  is  stili  fiiithful  unto  the  end.  He  says  the  old  turkey 
we  left  behind  has  been  setting  for  fourteen  weeks,  and  the  fowl 
invaders  are  welcome  to  her.  Furthermore,  that  he  threw  a  dead  cat 
into  the  well,  and  they  are  welcome  to  that,  B,   A. 


HIS   LATE  TRIALS   AND   ADVENTURES. 


Some  frog-eating  Frenchman  has  written  a  book,  and  called  it 
"  Lee's  Miserables,"  or  some  other  such  name,  which  I  suppose  con- 
tains the  misfortunes  of  pour  refugees  in  the  wake  of  the  Virginuy 
army,  CJeueral  Ho(xl  had  also  got  a  few  miserables  in  the  suburbs  of 
his  fighting-ground,  and  if  any  man  given  to  romance  would  like  a  fit 
subject  for  a  weeping  narrative,  we  are  now  ready  to  furnish  the 
mournful  material. 

As  the  Yankees  remarked  at  Bull  Run,  "  these  are  the  times  that 
try  men's  soles,"  and  I  suppose  my  interesting  family  is  now  prepared 


38  The  Farm  and  The  Fieeslde. 

to  show  stone  bruises  and  blisters  "with  anybody.  It  is  a  long  story. 
Mr.  Editor,  and  cannot  possibly  be  embraced  in  a  single  column  of 
your  wandering  newspaper ;  but  I  will  condense  it  as  briefly  as  possi- 
ble, smoothing  over  the  most  affecting  parts,  so  as  not  to  occasion  too 
great  a  diffusion  of  sympathetic  tears. 

After  our  hasty  flight  from  the  eternal  city,  we  became  converted 
over  to  the  doctrine  of  squatter  sovereignty,  and  pitched  our  tents  in 
the  piney  woods.  Afar  off  in  those  fields  of  illimitable  space,  we 
roamed  through  the  abstruse  regions  of  the  philosophic  world.  There 
no  unfriendly  soldier  was  perusing  around  and  asking  for  papers. 
There  the  melancholy  mind  was  soothed.  There  the  lonely  runagee 
could  contemplate  the  sandy  roads,  the  wire-grass  woods,  and  the  mil- 
lions of  majestic  pines  that  stood  like  ten-pins  in  an  alley,  awaiting 
some  huge  cannon-ball  to  come  along  and  knock  'em  down.  The 
mountain  scenery  in  this  romantic  country  was  grand,  gloomy  and 
peculiar,  consisting  in  numberless  gopher-hills,  spewed  up  in  promis- 
cuous beauty  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  All  around  us  the 
swamp  frogs  were  warbling  their  musical  notes.  All  above  us  the 
pines  were  sighing  and  singing  their  mournful  tunes.  Dame  Nature 
has  spread  herself  there  in  showing  her  lavish  hand,  and  wasting  tim- 
ber along  those  endless  glades.  Truly,  we  were  treading  on  classic 
ground,  for  we  pitched  our  tents  in  a  blackberry  patch,  and  morning, 
noon  and  night,  luxuriated  in  peace  upon  the  delicious  fruit  which 
everywhere  adorned  the  sandy  earth. 

But  those  piney  woods  to  which  we  fled,  did  not,  by  any  means, 
agree  with  our  ideas  of  future  comfort.  After  it  had  rained  some 
forty  days  and  forty  nights  without  a  recess,  the  corn  crop  had  pretty 
well  died  out,  and  General  Starvation  seemed  about  to  assume  com- 
mand of  the  region  round  about. 

We  felt  constrained  to  depart  from  those  coasts,  and  seek  an 
Egypt  somewhere  in  a  rounder  and  more  rolling  country.  So  we 
took  the  train  for  Atlanta  and  designed  to  take  roundance  from  there 
and  find  a  retreat  away  up  the  Chattahoochee  river  where  Mrs.  Arp's 
father  lived. 

All  along  the  line,  at  every  station,  pretty  women  get  on  and  get 
off.  When  they  leave  us,  an  affectionate  man  like  myself  uncon- 
sciously whispers,  "Depart  in  peace,  ye  treasures  of  delight."  Casting 
a  longing,  lingering  look  behind,  I  exclaimed  in  the  beautiful  language 


The  Farm  and  The  Fikeside.  39 

of  Mr.  Shakespeare,  '  I  have  thee  not,  but  yet  I  see  thee  still.'  Fare- 
well, sweet  darlings,  until  I  come  again.  But  woman  is  sometimes 
very  variegated  and  peculiar  in  the  way  she  does.  I  am  just  reminded 
how,  on  a  late  occasion,  I  found  but  one  vacant  seat  in  the  car  after  I 
located  my  numerous  and  interesting  family.  A  luxurious  lady,  with 
some  aggravating  curls,  had  occupied  nearly  all  of  a  seat  spreading 
herself  like  a  setting-hen,  all  over  the  velvet  cushion.  "Madam,  can 
I  share  this  seat  with  you?"  said  I.  "Certainly,  sir,"  and  she  closed 
in  her  skirts  some  several  inches.  In  a  short  space  of  time  she  became 
affected  with  drowsiness.  Her  neck  became  as  limber  as  a  greasy  rag. 
Leaning  on  my  shoulder,  she  seemed  wonderfully  affectionate,  as  her 
head  kept  bobbing  around,  and  I  felt  very  peculiar  at  such  times  as 
she  would  subside  into  my  palpitating  bosom.  About  this  critical 
juncture,  I  ventured  to  turn  my  astonished  gaze  towards  Mrs.  Arp, 
and  seeing  that  she  was  waiting  for  some  remark,  I  observed,  "Hadn't 
I  better  remove  my  seat  ?  Do  you  think  I  can  endure  the  like  of 
this?" 

"I  do  not,  William,"  said  she.  "You  had  better  stand  up  awhile, 
and  when  you  get  tired  some  of  the  children  will  relieve  you."  The 
glance  of  her  eye  and  the  manner  in  which  she  spoke  brought  me  up 
standing,  and  gave  me  a  correct  view  of  the  situation.  Immediately 
I  assumed  a  perpendicular  attitude,  and  the  curly  head  was  left  with- 
out a  prop.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Editor,  a  man's  wife  is  the  best  judge 
of  such  peculiar  things;  and  as  for  me,  I  am  always  governed  by  it. 

We  arrived  in  Atlanta  about  the  time  the  first  big  shells  com- 
menced scattering  their  unfeeling  contents  among  the  suburbs  of  that 
devoted  city.  Then  came  the  big  panics;  then  shrieked  the  man-eater; 
then  howled  the  wild  hyena  among  the  hills  of  Babylon. 

All  sorts  of  people  seemed  moving  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  with  an 
accelerated  motion.  They  gained  ground  on  their  shadows  as  they 
leaned  forward  on  the  run,  and  their  legs  grew  longer  at  every  step. 
With  me  it  was  the  second  ringing  of  the  first  bell.  I  had  sorter  got 
used  to  the  thing,  and  set  myself  down  to  take  observations.  "  How 
many  miles  to  Milybright?"  said  I.  But  no  response  came,  for  their 
legs  were  as  long  as  light,  and  every  bursting  shell  was  an  old  witch 
on  the  road.  Cars  was  the  all  in  all.  Depots  were  the  center  of 
space,  converging  lines  from  every  point  of  the  compass  made  tracks 
to  the  offices  of  railroad  superintendents.     These  functionaries  very 


40  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

prudently  vamoosed  the  ranch  to  avoid  their  too  numerous  friends, 
leaving  positive  orders  to  their  subordinates.  The  passenger  depot 
was  thronged  with  anxious  seekers  of  transportation.  "Won't  you 
let  these  boxes  go  as  baggage?"  "No,  madam,  it  is  impossible."  Just 
then  somebody's  family  trunk  as  big  as  a  nitre  bureau  was  shoved  in, 
and  the  poor  woman  got  desperate.  "All  I've  got  ain't  as  heavy  as 
that,"  said  she;  "I  am  a  poor  widow,  and  my  husband  Avas  killed  in 
the  army.  I've  got  five  children,  and  three  of  them  cutting  teeth, 
and  my  things  have  got  to  go."  We  took  up  her  boxes  and  shoved 
them  in.  Another  good  woman  asked  very  anxiously  for  the  Macon 
train.  "There  it  is,  madam,"  said  I.  She  shook  her  head  mourn- 
fully and  remarked,  "You  are  mistaken,  sir,  don't  you  see  the  engine 
is  headed  right  up  the  State  road,  towards  the  Yankees?  I  sha'nt 
take  any  train  with  the  engine  at  that  end  of  it.  No,  sir,  that  ain't 
the  Macon  train."  Evexy where  was  hurrying  to.  and  fro  at  a  lively 
tune.  "What's  to-day,  nigger,"  said  a  female  darkey,  with  a  hoop- 
skirt  on  her  arm.  "'Taint  no  day,  honey,  dat  eber  I  seed.  Yester- 
day was  Sunday,  and  I  recokon  to-day  is  Runday  from  de  way  de 
white  folks  are  movin'  about.  Yah,  yah;  ain't  afeered  of  Yankees 
myself,  but  dem  sizzin  bum-shells  kills  a  nigger  quicker  dan  you  can 
lick  your  tongue  out.     Gwiue  to  getaway  from  here — I  is." 

I  went  into  a  doctor's  shop,  and  found  my  friend  packing  up  his 
vials  and  poisons  and  copiva  and  such  like.  Various  excited  individuals 
came  in,  looked  at  a  big  map  on  the  wall,  and  pointed  out  the  roads  to 
McDonough  and  Eatonton  and  Jasper,  and  soon  their  proposed  lines 
of  travel  were  easily  and  greasily  visible  from  the  impression  of  their 
perspiring  fingers.  Au  old  skeleton,  with  but  one  leg,  was  swinging 
from  the  ceiling  looking  like  a  mournful  emblem  of  the  fate  of  the 
troubled  city.  "You  are  going  to  leave  him  to  stand  guard,  doctor?" 
said  I.  "I  suppose  I  will,"  said  he;  "got  no  transportation  for  him." 
"Take  the  screw  out  of  his  skull,"  said  I,  "and  give  him  a  crutch, 
maybe  he  will  travel;  all  flesh  is  moving  and  I  think  the  bones  will 
catch  the  contagion  soon." 

A  few  doors  further,  and  a  venerable  auctioneer  was  surveying  the 
rushing,  running  crowd,  and  every  now  and  then  he  would  raise  his 
arm  with  a  seesaw  motion  and  exclaim,  "Going — going — gone!  Who's 
the  bidder?"  "Old  Daddy  Time,"  said  I,  "he'll  get  them  all  before 
long."     The  door  of  an  old  friend's  residence  swung  open  to  my  gaze, 


The  Farm  and  Tih:  Firksipk.  41 

and  I  walked  in.  Various  gentlemen  of  my  acquaintance  were  dis- 
cussing their  evidences  of  propriety  over  a  jug  of  departing  spirits. 
"I  believe  I'll  unpack,"  said  one,  "dinged  if  I'm  afraid  of  a  blue- 
tailed  fly;  I'm  going  to  sit  down  and  be  easy.  "In  a  horn,"  said  I. 
Just  then  a  sizzing,  singing,  crazy  shell  sung  a  short-metre  hymn  right 
over  the  house.  ''Jake,  has  the  dray  come?"  he  said,  bouncing  to  his 
feet:  "confound  that  dray— blame  my  skin  if  I'll  ever  get  a  dray  to 
move  these  things — boys,  let's  take  another  drink."  After  which, 
another  friend  remarked,  "Boys,  lets  all  stay;  durned  if  it  don't  look 
cowardly  to  run !  Boys,  here's  to — who  shall  we  drink  to?"  "Here's 
to  Cassabianca,"  said  I.  "Good,  good,"  they  all  shouted.  "Here's  to 
Cabysiauka.  Let  me  speak  it  for  you,  boys,"  said  our  host;  "I've 
spoken  it  a  thousand  times."  He  mounted  the  seat  of  a  broken  sofa, 
and  spreading  himself,  declaimed  : 

"The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
"When  all  had  fled  but  him." 

■'That's  me,"  said  one.  "It's  me  exactly,"  said  another.  "I'm 
Cabysiauka  myself — dog  my  cat  if  I  don't  be  the  last  one  to  leave  this 
ship."  Another  shell  sizzed,  and  bursted  a  few  yards  off,  "Boys  let's 
take  another  drink  and  leave  the  town — dod  rot  the  Yankees."  "Here's 
to — the — the  'Last  of  the  Mohikans,'"  said  I.  "Exactly — that's  so. 
I'm  him  myself.    ■  I'm  the  mast  of  the  Lohikens;  durned  if  I'll  leave 

these  diggins  as  long  as — as  long  as "     "As  the  State  road,"  said 

I,  "which  is  now  about  four  inches  and  a  half."  "That's  it;  that's 
so,"  said  my  friends.  "Here's  to  the  State  road  and  Dr.  Brown  and 
Joe  Phillips,  as  long  as  four  inches  and  a  half." 

By  and  by  the  shells  fell  as  thick  as  Governor  Brown's  proclama- 
tions, causing  a  more  speedy  locomotion  in  the  excited  thi'ong  who 
hurried  by  the  door,  but  my  friends  inside  had  passed  the  Rubicon, 
and  one  by  one  retired  to  dream  of  Bozarris  and  his  Suliote  band. 
Vacant  rooms  and  long  corridors  echoed  with  their  snores,  and  they 
appeared  like  sleeping  heroes  in  the  halls  of  the  Montezumas. 

Contageous  diseases  are  said  to  be  catching  and  the  Atlanta  big 
panics  brought  the  Atlanta  folks  to  an  active  perpendicular  quicker 
than  all  the  physic  ever  seen  in  a  city  drug  store.  It  certainly  has 
a  tendancy  to  arouse  the  dormant  energies  of  feeble  invalids.  Weak 
backs  and  lame  legs,  old  chronics  and  rheumatics,  in  fact,  all  the 
internal  diseases  which  honest  fear  of  powder  and  ball  had  developed 


42  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

since  the  war  began,  were  now  forgotten  in  the  general  flight ;  and 
the  examining  boards  could  have  seen  many  a  discharge  invalidated, 
and  a  living,  moving  lie  given  to  their  certificates. 

All  day  and  all  night  long  the  iron  horses  were  snorting  to  the  echoing 
breeze.  Train  after  train  of  goods  and  chattels  moved  down  the  road, 
leaving  hundreds  of  anxious  faces  waiting  their  return.  There  was 
no  method  in  this  madness.  All  kinds  of  plunder  was  tumbled  in 
promiscuously.  A  huge  parlor  mirror,  some  six  feet  by  eight,  all 
bound  in  elegant  gold,  with  a  brass  buzzard  spreading  his  wings  on 
top,  was  set  up  at  the  end  of  the  car  and  reflected  a  beautiful 
assortment  of  parlor  furniture  to  match,  such  as  pots,  kettles,  baskets, 
bags,  barrels,  kegs,  bacon  and  bedsteads  piled  up  together.  Govern- 
ment officials  had  the  preference  and  government  officials  all  have 
friends.  Any  clever  man  with  a  charming  wife  or  a  pretty  sister 
could  secure  a  corner  in  more  cars  than  one,  and  I  will  privately 
mention  to  you,  Mr.  Editor,  that  I  have  found  a  heap  of  civility  on 
this  account  myself.  Indeed,  I  have  always  thought  that  no  man  is 
excusable  who  has  not  either  one  or  the  other. 


The  Fak»i  and  The  Fireside.  48 


CHAPTER  V. 


Bill  Arp  Addresses  Aktemus  Ward. 

Rome,  Ga.,  September  1,   1865. 
Me.  Aetemus  Ward,  SJiotvman— 

Sir  :  The  reason  I  write  to  you  in  perticler,  is  because  you  are 
about  the  only  man  I  know  in  all  "  God's  country,"  so-ca/^ec?.  For 
some  several  weeks  I  have  been  wantin'  to  say  sumthin'.  For  some 
several  years  we  rebs,  so-called,  but  now  late  of  said  country  deceased, 
have  been  tryiu'  mighty  haixl  to  do  soraethin'.  We  didn't  quite  do  it, 
and  now  it's  very  painful,  I  assure  you,  to  dry  up  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  make  out  like  we  wasn't  there. 

jMy  friend,  I  want  to  say  somethin'.  I  suppose  there  is  no  law 
agin  thinkin',  but  thinkin'  don't  help  me.  It  don't  let  down  my  ther- 
mometer. I  must  explode  myself  generally  so  as  to  feel  better.  You 
see,  I'm  tryin'  to  harmonize.  I'm  tryin'  to  soften  down  my  feelin's. 
I'm  endeavoring  to  subjugate  myself  to  the  level  of  surroundin'  cir- 
cumstances, so-called.  But  I  can't  do  it  until  I  am  allowed  to  say 
somethin'.  I  want  to  quarrel  Avith  somebody  and  then  make  friends. 
I  ain't  no  giant-killer.  I  ain't  no  Norwegian  bar.  I  ain't  no  boar- 
constrickter,  but  I'll  be  hornswaggled  if  the  talkin'  and  writin'  and 
slanderin'  has  got  to  be  all  done  on  one  side  any  longer.  Sum  of 
your  folks  have  got  to  dry  up  or  turn  our  folks  loose.  It's  a  blamed 
outrage,  so-called.  Ain't  you  editors  gotnothin'  else  to  do  but  peck  at 
us,  and  squib  at  us,  and  crow  over  us?  Is  every  man  what  can  write 
a  paragraph  to  consider  us  bars  in  a  cage,  and  be  always  a-jobbin'  at 
us  to  hear  us  growl  ?  Now,  you  see,  my  friend,  that's  what's  dishar- 
monious, and  do  you  jest  tell  'em,  one  and  all,  e  pluribus  unum,  so- 
called,  that  if  they  don't  stop  it  at  once  or  turu  us  loose  to  say  what 
we  please,  why  we  rebs,  so-called,  have  unanimously  and  jointly  and 
severally  resolved  to — to — to^think  very  hard  of  it — if  not  harder. 

That's  the  way  to  talk  it.  I  ain't  agoin'  to  commit  myself.  I  know 
when  to  put  on  the  breaks.  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  all  I  think.  Nary 
time.     No,  sir.     But  I'll  jest  tell  you,  Artemus,  and  you  may  tell  it 


44  The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside. 

to  your  show.  If  we  ain't  allowed  to  express  our  sentiments,  we  can 
take  it  out  in  hatin';  and  hatin'  runs  heavy  in  my  family,  sure.  I 
hated  a  man  once  so  bad  that  ail  the  hair  cum  off  my  head,  and  the 
man  drowned  himself  in  a  hog-waller  that  night.  I  could  do  it  agin, 
but  you  see  I'm  tryin'  to  harmonize,  to  acquiess,  to  becum  calm  and 
sereen. 

Now,  I  suppose  that,  poetically  speakin', 

"In  Dixie's  fall, 

We  sinned  all." 

But  talkin'  the  way  I  see  it,  a  big  feller  and  a  little  feller,  so-called, 
got  into  a  fite,  and  they  fout  and  fout  a  long  time,  and  everybody  all 
'round  kept  hollerin',  "hands  off,"  but  helpin'  the  big  feller,  until 
finally  the  little  feUer  caved  in  and  hollered  enuf.  He  made  a  bully 
fite,  I  tell  you.  Well,  what  did  the  big  feller  do  ?  Take  him  by  the 
hand  and  help  him  up,  and  brush  the  dirt  off  his  clothes?  Nary 
time !  No,  sur !  But  he  kicked  him  arter  he  was  down,  and  thro  wed 
mud  on  him,  and  drugged  him  about  and  rubbed  sand  in  his  eyes,  and 
now  he's  gwine  about  huntin'  up  his  poor  little  property.  Wants  to 
confiscate  it,  so-called.  Blame  my  jacket  ii  it  ain't  enuf  to  make 
jour  head  swim. 

But  I'm  a  good  Union  man,  so-called.  I  ain't  agwine  to  fight  no 
more.  I  shan't  vote  for  the  next  war,  /  ain't  no  gurrilla.  I've  done 
tuk  the  oath,  and  I'm  gwine  to  keep  it,  but  as  for  my  bein'  subjugated, 
and  humilyated,  and  amalgamated,  and  enervated,  as  Mr.  Chase  says, 
it  ain't  so — nary  time.  I  ain't  ashamed  of  nuthin'  neither — ain't 
repentin' — ain't  axin'  for  no  one-horse,  short-winded  pardon.  Nobody 
needn't  be  playin'  priest  around  me.  I  ain't  got  no  twenty  thousand 
dollars.  Wish  I  had ;  I'd  give  it  to  these  poor  widders  and  orfins. 
I'd  fatten  my  own  numerous  and  interestin'  offspring  in  about  two 
minutes  and  a  half.  They  shouldn't  eat  roots  and  drink  branch-water 
no  longer.  Poor  unfortunate  things!  to  cum  into  this  subloonary 
world  at  sich  a  time.  There's  four  or  five  of  them  that  never  saw  a 
sirkis  or  a  monkey-show — never  had  a  pocket-knife,  nor  a  piece  of 
chees,  nor  a  reesin.  There's  Bull  Run  Arp,  and  Harper's  Ferry  Arp, 
and  Chicahominy  Arp,  that  never  saw  the  pikteis  in  a  spellin'  book. 
I  tell  you,  my  friend,  we  are  the  poorest  people  on  the  face  of  the 
earth — but  Ave  are  poor  and  proud.  We  made  a  bully  fite,  and  the 
whole  American  nation  ought  to  feel  proud  of  it.     It  shows  what 


The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside.  45 

Amerieaus  cau  Jo  when  they  thiiik  they  are  imposed  upon.  Didn't 
our  four  fathers  fight,  bleed  and  die  about  a  little  tax  on  tea,  Avheu 
not  one  in  a  thousand  drunk  it '?  Bekaus  they  succeeded,  wasn't  it 
glory?  But  if  they  hadn't,  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  treason, 
and  they  would  have  been  bowin'  and  scrapin'  round  King  George  for 
pardon.  So  it  goes,  Artemus,  and  to  my  mind,  if  the  Avhole  thing 
was  stewed  down  it  would  make  about  half  a  pint  of  humbug.  We 
had  good  men,  great  men,  Christian  men,  who  thought  we  was  right, 
and  many  of  them  have  gone  to  the  undiscovered  country,  and  have 
got  a  pardon  as  is  a  pardon.  "When  I  die  I  am  mighty  willing  to  risk 
myself  under  the  shadow  of  their  wings,  whether  the  climate  be  hot 
or  cold.     So  mote  it  be. 

Well,  maybe  I've  said  enough.  But  I  don't  feel  easy  yet.  I'm  a 
good  Union  man,  certain  and  sure.  I've  had  my  breeches  died  bhie, 
and  I've  bot  a  blue  bucket,  and  I  very  often  feel  blue  and  about  twice 
in  a  while  I  go  to  the  doggery  and  git  blue,  and  then  I  look  up  at  the 
blue  serulean  heavens  and  sing  the  melancholy  chorus  of  the  Blue- 
tailed  Fly.  I'm  doin'  my  durndest  to  harmonize,  and  think  I  could 
succeed  if  it  wasn't  for  sum  things. 

I  don't  want  much.  I  ain't  ambitious,  as  I  used  to  was.  You  all 
have  got  your  shows  and  monkeys  and  sircusses  and  brass  bands  and 
organs,  and  can  play  on  the  patrolyum  and  the  harp  of  a  thousand 
strings,  and  so  on,  but  I've  only  got  one  favor  to  ax  you.  I  want 
enough  powder  to  kill  a  big  yaller  stumptail  dog  that  prowls  around 
my  px-emises  at  night.  Pon  my  honor,  I  won't  shoot  at  anything  blue 
or  black  or  mulatter.  Will  you  send  it?  Are  you  and  your  folks  so 
skeered  of  me  and  my  folks  that  you  won't  let  us  have  any  ammunition  ? 
Are  the  squirrels  and  crows  and  black  racoons  to  eat  up  our  poor 
little  corn-patches?  Are  the  wild  turkeys  to  gobble  all  around  with 
impunity?  If  a  mad  dog  takes  the  hiderphoby,  is  the  whole  com- 
munity to  run  itself  to  death  to  get  out  of  the  way?  I  golly!  it 
looks  like  your  people  had  all  took  the  rebelfoby  for  good,  and  was 
never  gwine  to  get  over  it.  See  here,  my  friend,  you  must  send  me 
a  little  powder  and  a  ticket  to  your  show,  and  me  and  you  will  har- 
monize sertin. 

With  these  few  remarks  I  think  I  feel  better,   and  I  hope  I  han't 
made  nobody  fitin'  mad,  for  I'm  not  on  that  line  at  this  time. 
I  am  truly  your  friend,  all  present  or  accounted  for. 


46  The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  Falling  Leaves, 

The  blackgum  leaves  are  turning  red, 

The  sycamores  are  turning  yellow, 
The  farmer  feels  serene  and  glad, 

For  everything  is  ripe  and  mellow. 

The  nights  are  getting  cool,  and  the  days  are  getting  shorter.  The 
fodder  is  all  pulled  and  safely  stowed  away  in  the  barn  loft. 

If  facts  are  stubborn  things,  then  pulling  fodder  in  the  low  grounds 
is  a  fact.  There  ain't  a  redeeming  circumstance  about  it.  Its  work- 
ing on  a  continual  strain  to  pull  it,  and  there's  no  fun  in  tyeing  it  up, 
and  I  reckon  that  the  toting  of  it  two  or  three  hundred  yards  to  the 
wagon  road,  ten  bundles  at  a  time,  stepping  like  a  blind  horse  over 
corn-stalks  bent  down,  and  tripping  up  in  tangled  morning  glories, 
and  every  now  and  then  losmg  your  holt  and  having  to  load  up  again, 
and  all  the  time  smothered  up  so  that  you  can't  see  where  you  are 
going,  and  not  a  breath  of  refreshmg  air  to  cool  you,  is  about  the 
meanest  business  I  have  ever  experienced.  It's  all  fact — solemn  fact 
— no  romance,  no  poetry,  no  joke.  But  that  ain't  all  of  it.  Its  got 
to  be  hauled  and  then  thrown  up  in  the  barn  loft  and  stacked  away, 
and  if  there's  any  hotter  place  to  work  in  than  a  barn  loft,  I  don't 
know  it,  and  I've  been  considerin'  that  after  its  all  done  you  can't  sell 
it  for  more  than  a  dollar  a  hundred,  and  right  now,  in  my  present 
frame  of  mind,  if  I  bad  any  to  sell  and  some  fellow  without  any  soul 
was  to  offer  me  90  cents  I  should  hit  him  if  it  was  the  last  lick  I  ever 
struck.  They  may  jew  me  on  corn  and  wheat  and  cotton  and  potatoes, 
but  I  won't  be  jewed  on  my  fodder  by  nobody.  It  does  seem  to  me 
that  all  this  sort  of  work  ought  to  be  done  by  machinery  or  not  to  be 
done  at  all. 

I've  been  diggin'  my  taters.  Me  and  the  children  have  been  looking 
forward  to  this  interesting  side-show  to  the  farming  business  with 
pleasant  anticipations.     I  always  did  love  to  follow  after  the  plow 


ml 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  49 

and  see  'em  roll  out  aud  tumble  up,  and  pick  up  the  big  ones 
and  feel  the  weight  of  them,  but  I  didn't  calculate  on  having  to  make 
a  full  hand.  For  two  whole  days  my  boys  pressed  me  into  service, 
and  I  got  awful  tired  of  picking  up  and  toting  off  in  the  baskets  to  the 
end  of  the  rows  whore  the  vines  would  be  handy  to  cover  them  up. 
My  farmer  boy  stripped  the  vines  with  a  horse-rake  of  his  own  inven- 
tion, and  it  done  it  better  and  cleaner  than  I  ever  saw  done  with  a 
plow.  Then  he  run  a  one-horse  twister  on  each  side,  and  me  and  the 
little  chaps  kept  up  pretty  well,  aud  when  he  split  op;>n  the  middles 
and  throws  'em  up  right  and  left  we  all  had  to  move  up  lively,  I  tell 
you.  Mv  legs  are  all  right,  but  I  don't  believe  my  back  is  as  limber 
as  it  used'  to  be.  I  got  awful  tired,  and  the  plow  business  seemed  to 
go  'long  so  smooth  and  easy  I  ventured  to  exchange  work  for  awhile. 
I  could  run  round  the  rows  pretty  well,  but  when  I  come  to  splitting 
open  the  middles  the  plagued  thing  seemed  to  get  cranky,  and  would 
run  out  and  run  in,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  and  the 
furrows  I  left  behind  looked  like  the  track  of  a  crazy  snake.  I  used 
to  could  plow,  but  it  looks  like  I  have  lost  the  lick.  Mij  boys  tvas  a-lookin' 
at  vie  and  smotherin'  their  fun,  and  about  the  time  I  was  willin'  to  quit 
I  observed  Mrs.  Arp  and  the  girls  a-pcrusin'  me  through  the  crack  of 
the  fence.  They  was  mighty  nigh  dead  from  laughing,  which  I  didn't 
enjoy,  but  the  sympathizin'  woman  suddenly  composed  herself  aud 
remarked  that  I  was  workin'  too  hard  consideriu'  my  age  and  infirmity. 
"You  are  all  over  in  a  sweat  of  perspiration,"  said  she,  "and  I  thought 
ycu  had  a  touch  of  St.  Vitus  dance,  as  you  was  following  that  plow. 
Let  the  boys  do  it,  and  come  to  the  house  and  rest."  But  I  wouldent. 
I'm  not  going  to  give  it  up  yet  by  no  means.  I'm  not  going  to  get 
old  before  she  does — nary  time.  So  I  stuck  to  the  patch  until  the  job 
was  done  and  I  got  the  sticky  turpentine  juice  that  milks  out  of  the 
yams  all  over  my  hands,  and  the  stain  died  my  fingers  an  Injun  red, 
and  it  wouldn't  v.'a&h  off  nor  scour  off,  but  it's  all  honest,  and  is  a  sign 
of  work.  I  tell  you  what,  hard  work  and  the  sweat  of  the  face  is  the 
curse  of  that  original  sin  put  on  us,  but  it  was  tempered  down  in 
mercy,  and  there  is  a  comfoi't  that  follows  it  that  folks  who  don't  try 
it  don't  know  anything  about.  The  law  of  compensation  comes  into 
everything  in  this  life,  "and  the  poor  can  be  about  as  happy  as  the  rich, 
if  they  have  a  mind  to,  aud  don't  spend  their  time  in  gruml)liu'  aud 
coraplainin'  about  their  hard  lot  in  this  subloouary  lif.\ 


50  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

Hard  work  is  the  best  antidote  for  grumbling.  It  won't  do  to  stop. 
If  I  can't  plow  I  can  do  something  else ;  I  can  tote  water  for  a  rest. 

Grease  the  wagon,  oil  the  machinery,  lubricate  the  energies  with  a 
little  recreation.  Don't  run  in  the  old  ruts  too  long.  Dig  a  while 
and  then  try  another  tool.  My  good  old  father  used  to  say,  "Wil- 
liam, when  you  get  tired  hoeing  potatoes  you  may  weed  the  onions  for 
a  rest."  Chop  wood,  shell  corn,  go  to  mill,  and  it  won't  hurt  to  take 
a  little  tramp  after  squirrels  and  ducks  and  partridges  or  pursue  the 
social  'possum  on  a  moonlight  night.  Variety  is  the  spice  of  life.  It 
helps  a  man  in  body  and  mind,  but  the  poor '  women  can't  do  such 
things  to  any  great  extent — tho'  my  girls  do  sometimes  go  'possum 
huntin'  with  me  and  the  boys  and  blow  the  melodious  cows'  horns  and 
scream  at  a  booger  in  every  bush.  One  day  the  boys  said  it  was  too 
wet  to  plow  and  they  were  going  down  on  the  creek  to  hunt  rabbits, 
so  I  concluded  to  go  along  and  tote  the  game.  Mrs.  Arp  said  she 
knew  we  wouldn't  kill  anything,  and  we  asked  her  if  she  would  cook 
all  we  brought  home,  and  she  said,  "  Yes,  and  dress  it,  too."  About 
the  time  we  got  started  the  two  little  chaps  came  up  and  begged 
me  so  sweetly  to  let  them  go  I  couldn't  refuse,  and  so  there  were  six 
of  us  in  all,  and  two  guns  and  two  dogs,  and  in  about  an  hour  we 
had  jumped  six  rabbits,  and  killed  five  of  them,  and  they  were  get- 
ting awful  heavy,  when  suddenly  one  of  the  boys  looked  up  in  an  elm 
tree  that  was  in  the  middle  of  a  canebrake  and  said,  "I  thought 
them  things  up  there  were  squirrels'  nests,  but  I  do  believe  I  saw  one 
of  'em  move."  We  all  stopped  and  looked,  and  sure  enuf  it  did 
move,  and  the  other  one  moved  and  we  knew  they  were  coons.  I 
never  saw  boys  get  excited  so  quick.  They  called  the  dogs  and  made 
for  the  canebrake.  The  creek  was  to  cross  and  nary  log  in  sight,  so 
they  just  waded  through  and  surrounded  the  tree  and  held  the  dogs 
fast  while  one  of  the  boys  got  ready  to  fire.  By  this  time  I  was  get- 
ting ready  to  be  a  boy  again  myself,  and  I  hollered  to  them  to  wait, 
and  I  pulled  the  little  chaps  through  the  cane  till  I  found  a  log  and 
got  them  across,  and  was  soon  on  the  battle-ground.  Bang  went  a 
gun  and  down  came  a  wounded  coon,  the  biggest  old  fellow  I  ever 
saw,  and  I  never  saw  such  a  fight  in  my  life.  He  wasn't  hurt  much 
with  the  small  shot  and  he  did  fight  and  growl  and  screech  most 
amazin'.  First  one  dog  and  then  the  other  backed  out  with  a  howl 
and  then  set  in  on  him  again,  until  finally  old  Zip  surrendered  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  51 

^ave  up  the  ghost.  Bang  went  another  gun  and  the  other  coon  let 
^o  and  fell  into  a  fonk,  and  there  he  lay  for  dead  for  about  fifteen 
minutes,  when  one  of  the  boys  said  he  was  going  to  have  him  anyhow. 
So  he  climbed  the  tree,  and  when  he  had  got  about  fifty  feet  up  the 
coon  straightened  up  in  the  fork  and  looked  savagely  at  him  and  gave 
a  growl.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  that  boy  slide.  He  came  down 
that  tree  like  a  fireman  comes  down  a  scaling  ladder.  He  left  his  hat 
and  right  smart  of  his  breeches  on  the  bark  and  grapevines.  Well, 
of  course  they  shot  him  again,  and  that  tumbled  him,  and  then  we 
had  another  fight,  and  the  boys  say  they  never  had  as  much  fun,  and 
they  feel  sorry  for  your  town  boys  who  don't  have  any  sport  and  are 
penned  up  within  brick  walls  and  the  best  they  can  do  is  to  waste  a 
few  dollars  on  a  French  actress,  and  not  know  a  word  she  said,  and 
then  go  home  and  say,  bully  for  Sara.  Well,  I  shouldered  the  big- 
gest coon,  and  I  think  he  weighed  about  twenty  pounds  when  we 
started  and  about  forty  when  I  got  home,  and  I  laid  him  down  sud- 
denly in  Mrs.  Arp's  lap  and  said,  "  Skin  him  and  cook  him,  if  you 
please  ?  "  I  oughtent  to  have  done  that.  J^It  was  premature,  and  not 
altogether  calculated  to  promote  our  conjugal  felicity.  Mi-s.  Arp  is  a 
stately,  deliberate  woman,  but  I  think  she  got  up  a  little  quicker  than 
I  had  ever  observed  her.  If  I  were  to  kill  a  thousand  coons  I 
wouldn't  try  that  little  joke  again.     It  didn't  pay. 

But  we  had  lots  ot  fun  out  of  the  coons,  and  the  time  spent  in  the 
hunt  was  not  wasted,  for  the  sport  renewed  our  energies  and  made  us 
feel  all  the  more  like  work. 

And  so  we  go,  mixing  in  with  our  daily  labor  any  fun  that  comes 
to  hand. 


52  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 


adventures  on  the  farm. 


Variety  is  the  spice  of  life;  and  if  a  man  can  get  any  fun  out  of 
trouble  he  had  better  do  it.  Farming  is  an  ever-changing  employ- 
ment. There  is  something  new  turns  up  nearly  every  day,  something 
unexpected  and  out  of  the  general  run.  It  aint  so  with  storekeep- 
ers, nor  carpentering,  nor  any  mechanical  business,  for  with  those 
pursuits  one  day  is  pretty  much  like  another,  and  that  is  why  I  like 
farming.  There  is  more  play  for  a  man's  ingenuity  and  contrivance 
and  more  gratification  in  his  success.  If  a  farmer  contrives  a  good 
gate  or  a  good  stall  for  the  stables,  or  makes  a  good  wagon  tongue,  or 
a  single-tree,  or  plow  stock,  he  is  proud  of  his  labors  and  thinks  more 
of  himself. 

I  have  been  mighty  busy  of  late  fixing  up  fences.  Fences  are  a 
big  thing  in  these  parts,  and  if  a  man  aint  careful  it  will  take  about 
half  he  makes  on  his  farm  to  keep  'em  mule  high  and  bull  strong  and 
pig  tight.  I  had  about  a  mile  to  build  this  spring,  and  timber  was 
too  scarce  to  make  it  all  of  rails,  so  I  went  to  work  and  cut  down  a 
lot  of  pines  for  stock ;  and  borrowed  a  carrylog  and  began  to  haul  'em 
to  the  saw  mill.  The  pines  were  on  the  side  of  a  rocky  ridge,  and 
the  steers  were  sorter  bull-headed  and  took  all  sorts  of  roads  to  get 
down,  and  run  over  saplings,  and  against  stumps,  and  my  old  darkey 
couldn't  do  much  with  'em,  and  the  iron  dogs  would  come  out  of  the 
logs  when  the  hind  end  rolled  over  a  rock,  and  the  log  would  stop 
and  the  steers  go  on,  and  it  took  all  hands  to  head  'em  with  sticks  and 
thrash  poles  and  make  'em  turn  around  and  go  back  and  straddle  the 
log  again — we  had  to  swing  one  big  log  five  times  before  we  got  down 
to  the  road — and  it  was  "gee  Dick,"  and  "haw  Tom,"  and  "come 
back  here,"  and  "whar  you  gwine"  a  hundred  times,  and  the  key  come 
out  of  the  bow,  and  the  bow  dropped  down,  and  old  Tom  thought  he 
was  loose  and  started  for  home,  and  we  had  a  time  of  it  all  around. 
After  awhile  I  noticed  that  the  dogs  were  too  straight  and  didn't 


Jill  Tuiks  the  Cakry-Log. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  55 

swell  around  the  log  as  they  ought  to,  so  I  sent  'em  to  the  shop  and 
bent  'em,  and  after  that  we  could  drive  'em  in  deeper,  and  we  had  no 
more  trouble  on  that  line.  When  Ave  got  all  the  stocks  down  to  the 
big  road,  we  began  to  haul  'em  to  the  mill,  and  there  was  a  right 
smart  hill  to  go  up,  which  was  tue  only  hill  on  the  way.  Old  Tom  is 
a  mean  old  steer.  He  is  just  like  some  folks,  he  has  fits  of  pulling 
and  fits  of  not  pulling  and  when  he  does  pull  he  wants  to  pull  as  hard 
as  he  can.  He  took  a  notion  that  the  hill  was  too  much  for  him,  so 
he  wouldn't  go  worth  a  cent;  we  hawd  him,  and  gee'd  him  and 
whipped  him,  and  hollered  at  him  and  twisted  his  tail,  but  he  got 
sullen  and  got  down  on  his  knees  and  played  off,  and  we  fooled  away 
half  a  day  without  moving  a  stock.  Then  I  sent  after  the  mules  and 
a  double  tree,  and  fifth  chain,  and  hitched  the  mules  in  front  and  all 
hands  hollered  "get  up  there,"  and  I  cracked  the  long  whip  and  old 
Tom  come  down  to  his  work,  for  he  saw  he  had  help,  and  the  way  we 
jerked  those  logs  up  the  hill  was  a  cortion.  We  had  no  more  trouble 
after  that,  until  the  time  to  go  home,  and  I  concluded  a  ride  on  the 
carrylog  tongue  would  suit  me  pretty  well,  for  Ralph,  my  fourteen 
year  old  boy,  said  it  was  good  riding,  and  so  I  mounted  on  the  little 
plank  seat,  and  took  the  lines  and  the  whip  and  give  the  words  of 
command,  and  suddenly  old  Tom  took  a  notion  to  run  away  for 
amusement.  It  was  down  a  gentle  grade  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and 
there  were  deep  little  ruts  in  the  road,  and  pine  roots  crossing  it  ever 
and  anon  and  some  turnouts  around  the  bad  places,  and  so  I  began 
to  pull  on  the  lines  and  holler,  "wo,  wo,  wo,  I  tell  you;  wo  Tom,  wo 
Dick,"  but  they  paid  no  more  attention  to  me  than  if  I  was  a  big  hog 
in  the  road.  They  just  went  a  kiting,  and  didn't  miss  a  big  stump 
half  an  inch,  and  the  ruts  and  the  roots  bumped  me  up  and  down 
like  a  churn  dasher.  I  never  was  scared  so  bad  in  my  life.  The 
darkey  and  Ralph  come  a  running  as  fast  as  they  could  to  get  ahead 
of  the  brutes,  and  that  made  'em  worse.  I  didn't  dare  to  jump  oflf  for 
fear  the  big  wheels  would  get  me,  and  then  there  was  those  con- 
founded iron  dogs  with  their  big  hooks  hanging  down  and  I  expected 
every  minute  to  be  jolted  off*,  and  have  'em  catch  me  in  the  slack  of 
my  pants,  or  somewhere  else,  and  drag  me  home  a  mangled  and  life- 
less carcass.  I  dropped  the  long  whip  and  let  the  lines  go,  when 
suddenly  :i  turn  in  the  road  brought  the  infernal  beasts  right  square 
up  against  a  wagon  that  was  coming,  and  they  stopped.     I  left  that 


od  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE. 

tongue  before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  and  sat  down  on  a  log  to 
be  thankful. 

Driving  steers  is  not  ruy  forte,  and  I  shall  hereafter  let  all  such 
foolishness  alone.  The  folks  have  not  got  done  laughing  at  me  yet. 
Carl  drew  a  picture  on  his  slate  of  a  carrylog  and  steers  and  two  big 
hooks  a  hanging  down,  and  a  man  hugging  the  tongue,  and  when  I 
came  into  the  room  Jesse  was  a  cackling  and  the  girls  a  giggling,  and 
Mrs.  Arp  laughing  like  she  had  found  a  circus;  but  I  can't  see  any 
more  fun  in  it  than  a  last  year's  bird's  nest. 

I  am  building  a  fence  now,  a  good  fence,  and  a  cheap  fence.  We 
got  one  hundred  chestnut  posts,  six  feet  long,  in  one  day,  and  hauled 
'em  home.  I  put  'em  twenty-two  inches  in  the  ground  and  twelve  feet 
apart;  my  plank  is  twelve  feet  long.  The  base  is  ten  inches  wide, 
and  the  next  three  six  inches  wide,  and  then  comes  the  barbed  wire 
two  inches  below  the  top  of  the  post,  and  this  makes  the  fence  just 
four  feet  high.  There  is  a  strip  of  six-inch  plank  nailed  up  and  down 
in  the  middle  of  every  panel,  which  is  nearly  as  good  as  if  there  was 
a  post  in  the  middle.  This  strip  keeps  the  plank  in  line  and 
keeps  them  from  warping.  The  nails  should  not  be  driven  in  straight, 
but  a  little  slanting  to  make  'em  hold  better.  I  built  a  half  mile  of 
this  kind  of  fence  two  j'ears  ago,  and  can  find  no  fault  with  it.  The 
wind  can't  blow  it  down,  and  stock  never  try  to  jump  it.  My  lum- 
ber cost  me  five  dollars  a  thousand  for  sawing;  my  wire  cost  me  half 
a  cent  a  foot,  and  that  makes  the  fence  cost  twent^'-eight  cents  a  rod 
besides  my  labor,  and  a  rail  fence  can't  be  built  much  cheaper,  con- 
sidering the  value  of  timber.  Fences  are  generally  made  too  high 
and  too  top-heavy,  and  the  w'ind  rocks  'em  about,  and  the  posts  get 
loose,  and  the  rain  drips  in  and  rots  'em.  Gateis  are  most  always  made 
too  heavy — a  gate  should  be  made  wide,  say  nine  feet,  and  very  light. 
Use  bolts  instead  of  nails  at  the  corner  and  in  the  middle  of  the  brace. 
Don't  let  the  gate  swing  when  it  is  shut.  Let  the  bottom  of  the  latch 
post  rest  on  a  piece  of  scantling,  bevel  the  scantling  a  little  and  let 
the  gate  slide  uj^on  it  as  it  shuts.  An  iron  roller  put  in  like  one  is 
put  in  a  bed-post  is  a  good  thing,  for  then  the  gate  will  roll  up  instead 
o£  slide  up.  A  gate  is  open  very  little  compared  with  the  time  it  is 
shut,  and  if  it  rests  on  something  when  shut  it  will  never  swag  when 
open.  A  gate  should  be  no  higher  than  the  fence,  but  I  make  my 
farm  gates  with  the  hinge  post  three  feet  higher,  and  run  a  brace  across 


The  Farm  and  The  FraEsiDE.  57 

that  one  from  tlie  othei*  two  corners.  Pack  post  well  at  the  bottom, 
especially  on  the  front  and  back.  The  ])lank  will  hold  'em  the  other 
way.  I  think  I  Know  a  right  smart  about  gates  and  about  fencing, 
but  I  uou't  know  how  to  drive  steers,  and  I  don't  want  to  learn. 


o6  The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 


Smoking  the  Pipe  of  Peace. 

reflections  and  deductions bugs  and  things — the  rise  an3> 

fade  of  presidents  and  preachers a  high-minded  mule a 

little  political  discourse soldiers  of  the  camp  and  soldiers 

of  the  cross. 

I  love  to  meet  a  nabor  and  hear  him  say,  "how's  craps?"  I 
continue  to  like  farmin'.  I  like  it  better  and  better,  except  that  the 
wheat  is  sumwhat  doubtful  about  making  a  crop,  A  little  long  bug 
with  a  tail  at  both  ends  has  got  in  the  joints  and  sucked  the  sap  out, 
and  it's  fallin'  down  in  patches.  Looks  like  there  is  always  somthin' 
preyin  on  somthin',  and  nothin'  is  safe  from  disaster  in  this  sublooaary 
world.  Flies  and  bugs  and  rust  prey  on  ihe  green  wheat.  Weevils 
eat  it  up  when  it's  cut  and  put  awav.  Eats  eat  the  corn — moles  eat  the 
gubbers — hawks  eat  the  chickens — the  minks  killed  three  of  our  ducks 
in  one  night — cholera  kills  the  hogs — and  the  other  night  one  of  my 
nabor's  mules  cum  along  with  the  blind  staggers  and  fell  up  a  pair  of 
seven  steps  right  into  my  front  gate  and  died  without  kickin'.  Then 
there  is  briars  and  nettles  and  tread  safts  and  smartsweed  and  poison 
oak  and  Spanish  needles  and  cuckle  burrs  and  dog  fennel  and  snakes, 
that's  always  in  the  way  on  a  farm  and  must  be  looked  after  keerfullv, 
especially  snakes,  which  are  my  eternal  horror,  and  I  shall  always 
believe  are  sum  kin  to  the  devil  himself.  I  can't  tolerate  such  long 
insects.  But  we  farmers  hav  to  take  the  bad  with  the  good,  and  there 
is  more  good  than  bad  with  me  up  to  the  present  time. 

I  wonder  if  Harris  ever  saw  a  pack  saddle.  "Well,  its  as  pretty  as  a 
rainbow,  just  like  most  all  of  the  devil's  contrivances,  and  when  you 
crowd  one  of  'em  on  a  fodderblade  you'd  think  that  forty  yaller  jackets 
had  stung  you  all  in  a  bunch  and  with  malice  aforethought.  And 
there's  the  devil's  race  horse  which  plies  around  about  this  time  and. 
Uncle  Isam  says,   chaws  tobakker  like  a  gentleman  and  if  he  spit  in 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  59 

your  eyes  you'd  go  blind  in  a  half  a  second.  And  one  day  he  showed 
me  the  devil's  darning  needle  which  mends  up  the  old  fellow's  stockius, 
and  the  devil's  snuff  box  which  explodes  when  you  mash  it,  and  one 
ounce  of  the  stuff  inside  will  kill  a  sound  mule  before  he  can  lay 
down.  Then  there's  some  flowers  that  he  wears  in  his  button-hole 
called   the  devil's  shoestring  and  the  devil  in  the  bush. 

I  like  farmin'.  Its  an  honest,  quiet  life,  and  it  does  me  so  much 
good  to  work  and  get  all  over  in  a  swet  of  presperation.  I  enjoy  my 
umble  food  and  my  repose,  and  get  up  every  mornin'  renewed  and 
rejuvenated  like  an  eagle  in  his  flight,  or  words  to  that  effect.  I 
know^  I  shall  like  it  more  and  more,  for  we  have  already  passed  over 
the  Rubycon,  and  are  beginnin'  to  reap  the  rewards  of  industry. 
Spring  chickens  have  got  ripe,  and  the  hens  keep  bloomin'  on.  Over 
200  now  respond  to  my  old  'oman's  call  every  morning,  as  she  totes 
around  the  bread  tray  a-singin'  teheeky,  teheeky,  teheeky.  I  tell  you, 
she  watches  those  birds  close  for  she  knows  the  value  of  'em.  She 
was  raised  a  Methodist,  she  was,  and  many  a  time  has  watched 
through  the  crack  of  the  door  sadly,  and  seen  the  preachers  helped  to 
the  last  gizzard  in  the  dish.  There  was  54  chickens  7  ducks,  5  gos- 
lins,  12  turkeys  and  seven  pigs,  hatched  out  last  week,  and  Daisy  had 
a  calf  and  Mollie  a  colt,  besides.  This  looks  like  bisness,  don't  it? 
This  is  what  I  call  successful  farmin' — multiplying  and  replenishing 
according  to  Scripter.  Then  we  have  a  plenty  of  peas  and 
potatoes  and  other  garden  yerbs,  which  helps  a  poor  man  out,  and  by 
the  4th  of  July  will  have  wheat  bread  and  buiskit  and  blackberry 
pies,  and  pass  a  regular  declaration  of  independence. 

I  like  farmin'.  I  like  latitude  and  longitude.  When  we  were 
penned  up  in  town  my  children  couldn't  have  a  sling-shot,  or  a  bow 
and  arrow,  nor  a  chicken  fight  in  the  back-yard,  nor  sick  a  dog  on 
another  dog,  nor  let  off  a  big  Injun  whoop,  without  some  neighbor 
making  a  fuss  about  it.  And  then,  again,  there  was  a  show,  or  a 
dance,  or  a  bazar,  or  a  missionary  meeting  most  every  night,  and  it 
did  look  like  the  children  were  just  obleeged  to  go,  or  the  world  would 
come  to  an  end.  It  was  money,  money,  money  all  the  time,  but  now 
there  isn't  a  store  or  a  milliner  shop  within  five  miles  of  us,  and  we 
do  our  own  work,  and  have  learned  what  it  costs  to  make  a 
bushel  of  corn  and  a  barrel  of  flour,  and  by  the  time  Mrs. 
Arp  has  nursed  and  raised  a  lot  of  chickens  and  turkeys,  she  thinks  so 


60  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

much  of  em  she  don't  want  us  to  kill  'em,  and  they  are  a  heap  better 
and  fatter  than  any  we  used  to  buy.  We've  got  a  great  big  fire-place 
in  the  family  room,  and  can  boil  the  coffee,  or  heat  a  kettle  of  water 
on  the  hearth  if  we  want  to,  for  we  are  not  on  the  lookout  for  com- 
pany all  the  time  like  we  used  to  be.  We  don't  cook  half  as  much 
as  we  used  to,  nor  waste  a  whole  parsel  every  day  on  the  darkey,  and 
we  eat  what  is  set  before  us,  and  are  thankful. 

It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  everybody  don't  go  to  farmin'.  Lawyers 
and  doctors  have  to  set  about  town  and  play  checkers,  and  talk  poli- 
tics and  wait  for  somebody  to  quarrel  or  fight,  or  get  sick;  clerks  and 
book-keepers  figure  and  multiply  and  count  until  they  get  to  counting 
the  stars  and  the  flies  on  the  ceiling,  and  the  peas  in  the  dish,  and  the 
flowers  on  the  papering;  the  jeweler  sits  by  his  window  all  the  year 
round,  working  on  little  wheels,  and  the  mechanic  strikes  the  same 
kind  of  a  lick  every  day.  These  people  do  not  belong  to  themselves; 
they  are  all  penned  up  like  convicts  in  a  chain-gang ;  they  can't  take 
a  day  nor  an  hour  for  recreation,  for  they  are  the  servants  of  their 
employers.  There  is  no  profession  that  gives  a  man  such  freedom, 
such  latitude,  and  such  a  variety  of  employment  as  farmin'. 

While  I  was  ruminating  this  morning,  a  boy  come  along  and  said 
the  dogs  had  treed  something  down  in  the  bottom.  So  me  and  my 
boys  shouldered  the  guns  and  an  ax,  and  took  Mrs.  Arp  and  the 
children  along  to  see  the  sport.  We  cut  down  a  hollow  gum  tree,  and 
caught  a  'possum  and  two  squirrels,  and  killed  a  rabbit  on  the  run, 
and  had  a  good  time  generally,  with  no  loss  on  our  side.  We  can 
stop  work  most  any  time  to  give  welcome  to  ajmssing  friend  and  have  a 
little  chat,  and  our  nabors  do  the  same  by  us;  but  if  you  go  into  one  of 
these  factories  or  workshops,  or  even  a  printing-office,  the  first  sign- 
board that  greets  you  says,  "Don't  talk  to  the  workmen."  Sociable 
crowd,  aint  it? 

There's  no  monotony  upon  the  farm.  There's  something  new  every 
day,  and  the  changing  work  brings  into  action  every  muscle  in  the 
human  frame.  We  plow  and  hoe,  and  harrow  and  sow,  and  gather  it 
in  at  harvest-time.  We  look  after  the  horses  and  cows,  the  pigs  and 
sows,  and  the  rams  and  the  lambs,  and  the  chickens,  and  the  turkeys, 
and  geese.  We  cut  our  own  wood,  and  raise  our  own  bread  and  meat, 
and  don't  have  to  be  stingy  of  it  like  city  folks.  A  friend,  who 
visited  us  not  long  ago,  wrote  back  from  tlie  town  that  his  grate  don't 


The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside.  61 

eeera  bigger  than  the  crown  of  hi.s  hat  since  he  sat  by  our  great  big 
friendly  fire-phice. 

But  they  do  git  the  joak  on  lue  sometimes,  for  you  see,  I'm  farmin' 
accordin' to  schedule,  and  it  don't  always  make  things  exactly  lumi- 
nous. Fur  instance,  it  said  that  cotton  seed  was-  an  excellent  fertil- 
izer. "Well,  I  had  'em,  and  as  they  was  a  clean,  nice  thing  to  handle, 
I  put  'em  under  most  eveiything  in  my  garding.  I  was  a-ruunin' 
inyun  sets  heavy,  and  one  mornin'  went  out  to  peruse  'em  and  I  saw 
the  straight  track  of  a  big  mole  under  every  row.  He  had  jest 
Listed  'em  all  up  about  three  inches.  He  hadn't  eat  nary  one,  and 
thinks  I  to  myself,  he's  just  goin'  around  a-smellin'  of  'em.  Next 
mornin'  all  my  sets  was  a  settin'  about  six  inches  up  in  the  air  and 
on  top  of  the  thickest  stand  of  cotton  you  ever  did  see.  Now,  if  I  had 
known  about  spilin'  of  'em,  as  my  nabors  call  it,  before  we  used  'em  it 
would  have  been  more  luminous.  Howsoever,  I  knifed  'em  down 
and  set  the  inyuns  back  again,  and  nobody  ain't  got  a  finer  crop. 

It's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  set  in  my  piazzer  these  pleasant  even- 
ings and  look  over  the  farm,  and  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace,  and  rumi- 
nate. Ruminate  upon  the  rise  and  fall  of  empires  and  parties  and 
presidents  and  preachers.  I  think  when  a  man  has  passed  the  Rubi- 
con of  life,  and  seen  his  share  of  trouble,  smokin'  is  allowable,  for  it 
kinder  reconciles  him  to  live  on  a  while  longer,  and  promotes  philo- 
sophic reflections.  I  never  know^ed  a  high-tempered  man  to  be  fond 
of  it. 

I  may  be  mistaken,  but  it  seems  to  me  a  little  higher  grade  of  hap- 
piness to  look  out  upon  the  green  fields  of  wheat  and  the  leafing  trees 
and  the  blue  mountains  in  the  distance  and  hear  the  dove  cooing  to 
her  mate,  and  the  whippoorwill  sing  a  welcome  to  the  night,  and  hunt 
flowers  and  bubby  blossoms  with  the  children,  and  make  whistles  for 
'em  and  hear  'em  blow,  and  see  'em  get  after  a  jumpin'  frog  or  a  gar- 
ter snake,  and  hunt  hen's  nests,  and  paddle  in  the  branch  and  get 
dirty  and  wet  all  over,  and  watch  their  penitent  and  subdued  expres- 
sion when  they  go  home,  as  Mrs.  Arp  looks  at  'em  with  amazement 
and  exclaims,  "  Mercy  on  me  ;  did  ever  a  poor  mother  have  such  a 
set?  Will  I  ever  get  done  making  clothes?  Put  these  on  right  clean 
this  morning,  and  not  another  clean  rag  in  the  house !  Get  me  a 
switch,  right  straight;  go!  I  will  not  stand  it!"  But  she  will  stand 
it,  and  they  know  it — especially  if  I  remark,  "Yes,  they  ought  to 


62  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

be  whipped."  That  saves  'em,  and  by  the  time  the  switch  comes  the 
tempest  is  over,  and  some  dry  clothes  are  found,  and  if  there  is  any 
cake  in  the  house  they  get  it.  Blessed  mother !  Fortunate  children ! 
What  would  they  do  without  her?  Why  her  very  scolding  is  music  in 
their  tender  ears.  I'm  thankful  that  there  are  some  things  that  corner 
in  the  domestic  circle  that  Wall  street  cannot  buy  nor  money  kings 
depress. 


The  Farim  and  The  Fikeside.  63 


CHAPTER   IX. 


The  Sounds  on  the  Front  Piazza. 

It  was  after  midnight.  About  the  time  when  deep  sleep  falleth 
upon  man,  but  not  upon  woman,  for  Mrs.  Arp's  ears  are  always 
awake,  it  seems  to  me.  I  felt  a  gentle  dig  in  my  side  from  an  elbow 
and  a  whispered  voice  said  ;  "  William,  William,  don't  you  hear 
that?"  "What  is  it?"  said  I.  "  Somebody  is  in  the  front  piazza," 
said  she.  "  Don't  you  hear  him  rocking  in  the  rocking  chair?"  And 
sure  enough  I  did.  The  chair  would  rock  awhile,  and  then  stop, 
and  then  rock  again.  "Is  the  gun  loaded?"  said  she;  "they  are 
robbers,  but  don't  shoot,  don't  make  a  noise ;  can't  you  peep  out  of  the 
window?  Mercy  on  us,  what  do  they  want  to  rob  us  for?  Maybe 
they  come  to  steal  one  of  the  children.  Slip  in  the  little  room  and 
see  if  Carl  is  in  his  bed.  Don't  stumble  over  a  chair,  maybe  some- 
body is  under  the  bed."  The  rocker  took  a  new  start  and  I  had 
another  dig  in  my  side.  "It  is  the  wind,"  said  I.  "  No,  it  is  not," 
said  she.  "There  is  no  wind,  the  window  is  up,  and  the  curtain  don't 
move.  They  are  robbers,  I  tell  you.  Hadn't  you  better  give  them 
some  money  and  tell  them  to  go  ?  "  "I  havn't  got  any  money,"  said 
I.  "  It's  all  gone."  "  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,"  said  she.  "Wil- 
liam, get  your  gun  and  be  ready." 

I  gently  slipped  out  of  the  bed  and  tiptoed  to  the  window  and  cau- 
tiously peeped  out,  and  there  was  the  pointer  puppy  sitting  straight  up 
in  my  ivife's  rocking  chair  and  ever  and  anon  he  would  lean  forward  and 
backwards  and  put  it  in  motion.  I  whispered  to  Mrs.  Arp  to  come 
and  see  the  four-legged  robber,  which  she  did,  and  in  due  time  aU 
was  calm  and  serene. 

Last  night  there  was  another  sensation  in  the  back  piazza,  and  it 
was  sure  enough  feet  this  time,  for  they  made  a  racket  on  the  floor 
and  moved  around  lively,  and  the  elbow  digs  in  my  side  came  thick 
and  fast;  took  me  a  minute  to  get  fairly  awake,  and  after  listening 
awhile  I  exclaimed  inaudible  language,  "goats,  Carl's  goats," and  I 


64  The  Faksi  and  The  FiREsroE. 

gathered  a  broom  and  mauled  them  down  the  back  steps.  ' '  1  told 
you,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "that  those  goats  would  give  us  trouble,  but  I 
can  stand  it  if  you  can." 

Carl  and  Jesse  have  been  begging  for  goats  a  good  while  and  I  was 
hostile,  very  hostile  to  goats,  for  I  knew  how  much  devilment  they 
would  do,  but  the  little  chaps  slipped  up  on  the  weak  side  of  their 
mother,  and  she  finally  hinted  that  children  were  children ;  that  old 
folks  had  their  dotage  and  children  had  their  goatage  and  her  little 
brothers  used  to  have  goats,  and  so  the  pair  of  goats  were  bought  and 
Ralph  worked  two  days  making  a  wagon,  and  contrived  some  harness 
out  of  old  bridle-reins  and  plow  lines,  and  it  took  all  hands  to  gear  'em 
up,  and  at  the  first  crack  of  the  whip  they  bounced  three  feet  in  the 
air,  and  kept  on  bouncing,  and  jerked  Carl  a  rod,  and  got  loose  and 
run  away  and  turned  the  wagon  up  side  down,  and  they  kept  on  leap- 
ing and  jumping  until  they  got  all  the  harness  broken  up  and  got 
away.  It  beat  a  monkey  show.  We  all  laughed  until  we  cried,  but 
the  little  chaps  have  reorganized  on  a  more  substantial  basis,  and  there 
is  another  exhibition  to  come  off  soon. 

Mr.  Shakespeare  says  that  a  man  has  seven  ages,  but  to  my  opinion 
a  boy  has  about  ten  of  his  own.  He  begins  with  his  first  pair  of 
breeches  and  a  stick  horse,  and  climbs  up  by  degrees  to  toy  guns  and 
fire  crackers  and  sling  shot  and  breaking  calves  and  billy  goats,  and  to 
sure  enough  guns  and  a  pointer  dog,  and  the  looking  glass  age  when  he 
admires  himself  and  greases  his  hair  and  feels  of  his  downy  beard,  and 
then  he  joins  a  brass  band  and  toots  a  horn,  and  then  he  reads  novels 
and  falls  in  love  and  rides  a  prancing  horse  and  writes  perfumed  notes 
to  his  girl.  When  his  first  love  kicks  him  and  begins  to  run  with 
another  fellow  he  drops  into  the  age  of  despair,  and  wants  to  go  to 
Texas  or  some  other  remote  region,  and  sadly  sings : 

••  This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show." 

Boys  are  mighty  smart  now-a-days.  They  know  as  much  at  ten 
years  as  we  used  to  know  at  twenty,  and  it  is  right  hard  for  us  to  keep 
ahead  of  'em.  Parents  used  to  rule  their  children  but  children  rule 
their  parents  now.  There  is  no  whipping  at  home,  and  if  a  boy  gets 
a  little  at  school  it  raises  a  row  and  a  presentation  to  the  grand  jury. 
When  my  teacher  whipped  me  I  never  mentioned  it  at  home  for  fear 
of  getting  another.    I  got  three  whippings  in  one  day  when  I  was  a  lad  ; 


The  Farm  and  Tiik  Fireside.  65 

I  had  a  fight  with  another  hoy  and  he  whipped  me,  and  the  school 
teacher  whipped  me  for  fighting,  and  my  father  whipped  me  because 
the  teacher  did.  That  was  awful,  wasent  it.  But  it  was  right,  and 
it  did  me  good.  One  of  these  modern  philanthropies  was  telling  my 
kinsman  the  other  day  how  to  raise  his  boy.  "Never  whip  him," said 
he.  "Raise  him  on  love  and  kindness  and  reason,"  and  then  he 
appealed  to  me  for  endorsement.  "And  when  that  boy  is  about 
twelve  years  old,"  said  I,  "do  you  go  and  talk  to  him  and  if  possible 
persuade  him  not  to  whip  his  daddy.  Tell  him  that  it  is  wrong  and 
unfilial,  and  will  injure  his  reputation  in  the  community." 

The  modern  boy  is  entirely  too  bigity.  I  was  at  church  in  Rome 
last  Sunday  and  saw  two  boys  there,  aged  about  ten  and  twelve  years, 
and  after  service  they  lit  tbeir  cigarettes  and  went  off  smoking.  An 
old-fashioned  man  looked  at  'em  and  remarked :  "  I  would  give  a 
quarter  to  paddle  them  boys  two  minutes.  I'll  bet  their  fathers  is 
afraid  of  'em  right  now."  The  old-fashioned  man  never  was  afraid  of 
his.  He  Avorked  'em  hard,  but  he  gave  'em  all  reasonable  indulgence. 
He  kept  'em  at  home  of  nights,  and  he  made  good  men  of  them. 
They  have  prospered  in  business  and  acquired  wealth,  and  are  raising 
their  children  the  same  way,  and  they  love  and  honor  the  old  gentle- 
man for  giving  them  habits  of  industry  and  economy.  He  was  a 
merchant  and  didn't  allow  his  boys  to  sweep  out  a  string  or  a  scrap  of 
paper  as  big  as  your  hat.  Habits  are  the  thing,  good  habits,  habits  of 
industry  and  economy  ;  when  acquired  in  youth  they  stick  all  through 
life. 

And  the  girls  need  some  watching  too.  They  are  most  too  fast 
now-a-days.  Too  fond  of  fashion,  and  they  read  too  much  trash. 
The  old  fashion  retiring  modesty  of  character  is  at  a  discount.  They 
don't  wait  for  the  boys  to  come  now,  they  go  after  'em  ;  they  marry  in 
haste  and  repent  at  leisure  ;  they  run  round  in  their  new-fashioned  night 
gowns  and  call  it  a  Mother  Hubbard  party.  The  newspapers  have  got 
up  a  sensation  about  the  arm  clutch;  well  I  don't  see  any  difference 
between  that  clutch  and  any  other  clutch.  The  waist  clutch  in  th(!se 
round  dances  is  just  as  bad  or  worse.  They  are  all  immodest  and  there 
is  not  a  good  mother  in  the  land  that  approves  of  them.  A  girl  wlio 
goes  to  a  promiscuous  ball  and  waltzes  around  with  promiscuous  fel- 
lows puts  herself  in  a  promiscuous  fix  to  be  talked  about  by  the 
dudes  and  rakes  and  fast  young  men  who  have  encircled  her  waist.   A 


66  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

girl  should  never  waltz  with  a  young  man  whom  she  woold  not  be 
willing  to  marry.  Slander  is  very  common  now,  slander  of  young 
ladies,  and  there  are  not  many  who  escape  it ;  the  trouble  is  it  is  not 
all  slander,  some  of  it  is  truth.  In  the  olden  times  when  folks  got 
married  they  stayed  married,  but  now  the  courts  are  full  of  divorces 
and  the  land  is  spotted  with  grass  widows,  and  in  many  a  household 
there  is  a  hidden  grief  over  a  daughter's  shame.  It  is  a  good  thing 
for  the  girls  to  work  at  something  that  is  useful.  There  is  plenty  of 
home  work  to  do  in  most  every  household.  If  there  is  not  then  they 
can  try  drawing  and  sketching  or  painting  or  music,  something  that 
will  entertain  them.  There  are  as  many  female  dudes  as  males,  and 
they  ought  to  marry,  I  reckon,  and  go  to  raising  fools  for  market. 

We  have  got  a  cook  now  and  my  folks  are  taking  a  rest.  She  is  an 
old-fashioned  darkey  and  flies  around  with  a  quick  step  and  lightly. 
Anybody  could  tell  that  ' '  Sicily  "  had  had  good  training  from  a  white 
mistress.  When  she  gets  through  her  work  she  brings  up  a  tub  of 
water  and  goes  to  washing  up  the  floors  without  being  told  ;  she 
washes  the  dishes  clean  and  is  nice  about  the  milk  and  the  churning, 
and  is  good  to  the  children.  She  lets  them  cook  a  little  and  make 
boys  and  horses  out  of  the  biscuit  dough.  The  like  of  that  suits  Mrs. 
Arp  exactly.  If  I  was  a  darkey  I  would  know  exactly  how  to  get 
Mrs.  Arp's  money  and  her  old  dresses  and  a  heap  of  little  things 
thrown  in.  Yesterday  morning  Sicily's  husband  knocked  at  the  door 
very  early  and  said  his  wife  was  sick,  sick  all  night,  and  Mrs.  Arp 
turned  over  and  exclaimed,"  Oh  my."  I  told  him  to  go  to  the  next 
room  and  tell  the  girls,  and  I  heard  'em  groan  and  say  "goodness 
gracious,"  but  they  got  up  and  gave  us  a  first-class  breakfast,  and  I 
praised  'em  up  lots.  I  promised  to  let  'em  go  to  town  and  tumble  up 
the  new  goods  and  bring  back  a  big  lot  of  samples.  Girls  should  be 
encouraged  when  they  do  well. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  67 


CHAPTER   X. 


Mr.  Arp  Feels  His  Inadequacy. 

Sometimes  a  man  feels  entirely  unadequate  to  the  occasion.  A  kind 
■of  lonesome  and  helpless  feeling  comes'  over  him  that  no  philosophy 
can  shake  off.  I  dident  have  but  five  sheep.  They  were  fine  and  fat 
and  followed  us  about  when  we  walked  down  to  the  meadow,  and  our 
little  shepherd  dog  thought  they  were  the  prettiest  things  in  the  world, 
and  they  would  eat  salt  out  of  the  children's  hands,  and  we  were 
thinking  about  the  little  lambs  that  would  come  in  the  spring.  There 
was  a  house  for  them  in  the  meadow  and  it  was  full  of  clean  wheat 
straw  where  they  could  take  shelter  from  the  rain  and  the  wind. 

Alas  for  human  hopes.  It  looks  like  everything  is  born  to  trouble, 
especially  sheep.  Yesterday  morning  I  walked  down  to  the  branch, 
with  my  tender  offspring,  and  before  I  was  prepared  for  it  the  torn 
and  bloody  form  of  the  old  he  ram  was  seen  lying  in  the  water  before 
me.  While  I  stood  and  pondered  over  this  sad  calamity,  the  children 
soon  found  the  others  scattered  round  in  the  mire  and  bullrushes  stiff 
and  cold  and  dead.  I  thought  of  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife.  What  would 
she  say.  I  thought  of  that  passage  of  Scriptures  which  says  "beware 
of  dogs."  I  thought  of  Joe  Harris  and  the  Constitution  and  that 
confounded  legislature.  I  thought  of  guns  and  striknine  and  the 
avenger  of  blood.  Slowly  and  sadly  w'e  returned  to  the  house,  and 
when  the  children  had  unfolded  the  mournful  tale  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife, 
stopped  washing  the  dishes  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  For  awhile  she 
never  spoke.  She  seemed  unadequate.  There  was  a  solemn  stillness 
pervading  the  assembled  family.  The  children  looked  at  me  and  then 
at  their  mother,  when  suddenly  says  she,  choking  up,  "The  poor 
things;  torn  to  pieces  by  the  dogs  right  here  in  a  few  steps  of  the 
house.  I  heard  Juno  barking  furiously  in  the  piazzo  and  I  heard  the 
cows  lowing  like  something  was  after  their  calves,  and  I  thought  I 
would  wake  you,  but  I  didn't.  Poor  things,  if  they  had  only  blated 
or  made  a  noise.  After  a  solemn  pause,  she  rose  forward  and  exclaimed : 
"William  Arp,  if  I  was  a  man  I  would  take  my  gun  and  never  stop 
till  I  had  killed  every  dog  in  the  naborhood.     A  little  while  back 


68  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

they  killed  all  our  geese  in  that  same  meadow.  These  trifling  people- 
round  here  hunt  rabbits  all  over  your  plantation  with  their  sheep  kill- 
ing dogs,  and  you  won't  stop  'em  for  fear  of  hurtin  their  feelings,  and 
now  you  see  what  we  get  by  it.     I'd  go  and  shoot  their  dogs  in  their 

own  yards,  and  if  they  made  a  fuss  about  it  I  would well,  I  don't 

know  what  I  wouldn't  do." 

"If  I  knew  the  dogs  that  did  it — "  said  I,  meekly, 

"Knew  the  dogs!"  said  she.  "Why  you  know  that  big,  brindle 
that  got  hung  by  his  block  down  there  in  the  willows,  and  you  ought 
to  have  killed  him  then,  and  you  know  that  white  dog,  and  the  spotted 
one  that  prowls  around,  and  those  dogs  that  them  boys  are  always 
hunting  with — you  can  kill  them  anyhow.  We  will  never  have  any- 
thing if  you  don't  protect  yourself,  and  the  Lord  knows  we've  got 
little  enough  now." 

"They  will  come  back  to-night,"  said  I,  and  shore  enough  they  did, 
and  the  boys  laid  in  wait  for  'em  and  got  some  revenge,  and  we've 
given  the  naborhood  fair  warning  that  henceforth  we  will  kill  every 
dog  that  puts  his  foot  on  our  premises,  law  or  no  law,  gospel  or  no 
gospel.  We've  declared  war.  A  dog  that  won't  stay  at  home  at  night 
ain't  fit  to  be  a  dog.  The  next  man  who  runs  for  the  legislature  in 
this  county  has  got  to  commit  himself  against  dogs  or  I'll  run  against 
him  whether  the  people  vote  for  me  or  not,  and  if  he  beats  me  I 
reckon  I  can  move  out  of  the  county,  can't  I,  or  quit  trying  to  raise 
sheep.  My  nabor,  Mr.  Dobbins,  says  they  have  killed  over  a  hun- 
dred for  him  in  the  last  two  years  and  he  has  quit.  He  won't  try  to 
raise  any  more. 

But  we  are  reviving  a  little.  The  ragged  edge  of  our  indignation 
has  worn  off.  We  skinned  the  poor  things  and  the  buzzards  have 
preyed  upon  their  carcasses,  and  once  more  our  family  affairs  are 
moving  along  in  subdued  serenity.  Last  night  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife, 
told  the  girls  she  didn't  think  their  lightbread  was  quite  as  light  and 
nice  as  she  used  to  make  it,  and  she  would  show  them  her  way,  so  they 
could  take  pattern.  She  fixed  up  the  yeast  and  made  up  the  dough 
and  put  it  down  by  the  fire  to  rise,  and  this  morning  it  had  riz  about 
a  quarter  of  an  inch,  which  she  remarked  was  very  curious,  but 
reckoned  it  was  too  cold,  and  so  she  put  it  in  the  oven  to  bake  and 
then  it  got  sullen  and  riz  downwards,  and  by  the  time  it  was  done  it  Avas 
about  as  thick  as  a  ginger  cake,  and  weighed  nigh  unto  a  pound  to 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside,  69 

the  square  inch.  She  never  said  anything,  but  hid  it  away  on  the 
top  shelf  of  the  cuj^board.  I  saw  the  girls  a  blinking  around,  and 
when  lunch  time  came  I  got  it  down  and  carried  it  along  like  it  was  a 
keg  of  nails  and  put  it  before  her.  "I  thought  you  would  like  some 
ligh thread,"  said  I. 

She  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork,  and  for  a  moment  was  alto- 
gether unadequate  to  the  occasion.  Suddenly  she  seized  the  stubborn 
loaf,  and  as  I  ran  out  of  the  door  it  took  me  right  in  the  small  of  my 
back,  and  I  actually  thought  somebody  had  struck  me  on  the  spine 
with  a  maul.  "Now,  Mr.  Impudence,  take  that,"  said  she.  "If  a 
man  asks  for  bread  will  you  give  him  a  stone,"  said  I.  Seeing  that 
hostilities  were  about  to  be  renewed,  I  retired  prematurely  to  the 
piazzo  to  ruminate  on  the  rise  of  cotton  and  wheat,  and  iron,  and 
-everything  else  but  bread.  She's  got  two  little  grandsons  staying  with 
her,  and  unbeknowing  to  me  she  hacked  that  bread  into  chunks  and 
armed  five  little  chaps  with  'em,  and  she  came  forth  as  captain  of  the 
gang  and  suddenly  they  took  me  unawares  in  a  riotus  and  tumultuous 
manner.  They  banged  me  up  awfully  before  I  could  get  out  of  the 
way.  My  head  is  sore  all  over,  and  take  it  all  in  all,  I  consider  myself 
the  injured  person.  I  mention  this  circumstance  as  a  warnin'  to  let 
all  things  alone  when  your  wife  hides  'em,  especially  bread  that 
wouldent  rise.  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife,  has  most  wonderful  control  of 
these  little  chaps — children  and  grand-children.  She  can  sick  'em 
onto  me  with  a  nod  or  a  wink,  but  I  can't  sick  'em  onto  her ;  no,  sir. 
I  never  tried,  and  I  don't  reckon  I  ever  will,  but  I  just  know  I 
couldn't.  I  don't  have  much  of  a  showing  with  these  children.  This 
morning  I  found  one  of  'em  climbin'  up  on  the  sash  of  the  flower  pit 
and  while  I  was  hunting  for  a  switch  the  little  rascal  ran  to  his  grandma, 
and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  She  never  said  nothing,  but  sorter  paused 
and  looked  at  me.  My  only  chance  is  to  get  'em  away  oS  in  the  field 
or  the  woods  and  thi-ash  'em  generally  for  a  month's  rascality,  and  then 
honey  them  up  just  before  we  get  home  to  keep 'em  from  telling  on 
me.  For  thirty  years  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife,  has  labored  under  the 
delusion  that  the  children  are  hers,  and  that  I  had  mighty  little  to  do 
with  'em  from  the  beginning.  I  would  like  to  see  somebody  tiy  to 
take  'em  away  with  a  habeas  corpus  or  any  other  corpus.  Goodness 
gracious!  Talk  about  a  lioness  robbed  of  her  whelps  or  a  she  bear  of 
her  cubs.     Well,  it  couldn't  be  done,  that's  all. 


70  The  Far^i  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


A  Feast  ix  a  Sycamore  Grove. 


THE   LAMB   AXD   THE    PIG THE   WATERISIELON   AND    THE    BRUNSWICK 

STEW AN      ANECDOTE      OF        JUDGE       JUNIUS       HILLYER PEELING 

PEACHES. 

I  was  peeling  nice  soft  peaches  for  dinner  just  to  save  Mrs.  Arp  the 
trouble,  and  get  an  approving  smile,  when  suddenly  she  came  up 
behind  me  and  said,  "William,  are  your  hands  right  clean?"  I  held 
them  up  for  her  to  look  at  as  I  remarked,  "If  they  were  not  at  first  I 
reckon  they  are  now."  It  seems  to  me  that  some  folks  get  more  par- 
ticular about  such  things  as  they  grow  older,  and  it  takes  more  water 
and  soap  and  whitewash  and  sweeping  and  scouring  than  it  used  to. 
Maybe  the  appetite  is  not  so  good,  and  the  spectacles  magnify  too 
much.  I  used  to  could  knock  the  ashes  out  of  my  pipe  on  the  piaza 
floor  and  get  a  little  dirt  from  my  shoes  on  the  banisters  and  leave 
some  dirty  water  in  the  pan  at  the  back  door,  but  I  am  gradually 
quitting  these  little  things  for  the  sake  of  being  calm  and  serene  in 
my  declining  years.  Cleanliness  is  a  good  thing,  I  know,  and  the 
scripters  say  it  is  next  to  godliness,  and  if  so  I  know  some  good 
women  who  are  mighty  nigh  sanctified  already.  But  somehow  I  like 
a  little  clean  dirt  scattered  around,  just  to  enjoy  the  contrast  when  we 
do  clean  up.  I  don't  think  a  man  can  enjoy  a  clean  shirt  until  he 
gets  one  dirty.  When  I  showed  Mrs.  Arp  my  fingers  that  the  peaches 
had  made  so  clean  it  reminded  me  of  the  venerable  Judge  Hillyer, 
the  old  patriarch,  whom  I  used  to  venerate  when  I  was  a  boy,  for  he 
was  handsome  and  eloquent,  and  used  language  with  such  precision 
and  accent.  He  Avas  always  looking  into  the  reason  of  things — the 
why  and  the  wherefore,  and  if  he  saw  anything  strange  he  stopped  and 
perused  and  inquired  until  he  got  to  the  bottom  of  it.  The  first  time 
he  ever  went  to  New  York,  Howell  Cobb  was  his  companion,  and 
Howell  had  a  hard  time  in  getting  the  judge  along,  for  he  wanted  to 


The  Farm  and  Tin:  Fikeside.  71 

see  everything  and  to  know  everything.  "Now,  Howell,"  said  he, 
"just  stop  right  here  and  tell  me  what  that  is,  and  what  is  it  for?" 
"Howell,  do  you  suppose  that  all  these  people  have  got  pressing  busi- 
ness that  hurries  them  along  so  fast?"  "Howell,  have  you  any  idea 
what  that  store  of  Stuart's  cost  ?"  Cobb  was  hurrying  him  along  a 
back  street,  when  the  judge  stopped  and  looking  over  a  window  screen 
into  a  room,  saw  the  heads  and  shoulders  of  two  men  going  up  and 
down  with  a  curious  motion.  His  curiosity  was  excited  and  says  he, 
"Howell,  what  are  those  men  doing?"  "Oh,  I  don't  know,  Junius. 
Come  along,"  said  Howell.  "We  will  never  get  to  the  hotel  if  we 
keep  stopping  to  examine  everything  you  see."  "But,  Howell,  I 
"want  you  to  look  at  those  men.  They  are  engaged  in  something  very 
peculiar,  and  conscientiously,  I  would  like  to  know  what  it  is." 

Howell  peeped  through  an  opening  in  the  screen  and  said,  "  Why, 
Junius,  they  are  treading  up  dough  in  a  trough ;  they  are  making 
baker's  bread.     Don't  you  see  ? " 

The  judge  was  amazed.  He  looked  earnestly  at  them  as  they 
tramped  the  dough  with  their  bare  legs,  and  feet,  and  with  great 
emphasis,  said  slowly  and  distinctly,  "  Howell,  do  you  suppose  their 
feet  are  clean?"  "I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,  Hillyer,"  said  Cobb. 
"  I  know  thoy  are  clean  by  this  time."     And  he  hurried  him  along. 

Cobb  said  afterwards  that  the  judge  was  very  fond  of  baker's  bread, 
but  he  noticed  that  he  didn't  eat  much  more  of  it  in  New  York. 

But  folks  get  tired  of  eating  the  same  kind  of  vittels  every  day, 
and  in  the  same  room  and  keeping  off  t]ie  same  flies  and  kicking  the 
same  cat  from  under  the  table,  and  so  the  other  day  I  took  a  notion 
to  change  the  programme.  Mrs.  Arp  had  told  me  many  a  time  that 
she  had  never  eat  any  barbecued  meat  since  she  was  a  child,  and  she 
thought  then  that  it  was  the  best  meat  she  ever  did  eat.  And  so  I 
got  an  old-fashioned  darkey  who  said,  "  Yes,  boss,  I  used  to  barbecu 
meat  for  old  master  away  back  when  Mr.  Polk  run  agin  Mr.  Clay, 
and  the  old  master  and  all  of  us  niggers  was  for  Mr  Clay,  and  we 
used  to  give  barbecues  and  have  a  powerful  time  just  afore  de 
'lection." 

I  cleaned  up  the  ground  and  trimmed  the  trees  in  a  beautiful 
little  sycamore  grove  down  by  the  bi-anch,  and  I  had  a  little  pit  dug, 
and  we  sacrificed  a  fat  lamb  and  a  fat  pig,  and  hung  them  up  over 
night,  and  we  hauled  a  load  of  bark  and  stovewood,  and  the  old  dar- 


72  The  Farm  and  The  Fieeside. 

key  had  a  big  bed  of  coals  by  daylight,  and  had  the  meat  on,  and  after 
breakfast  we  built  a  table  and  some  plank  seats,  and  put  up  a  swing 
for  the  children  and  swung  the  hammock,  and  toted  down  some  chairs 
and  put  everything  in  shape  for  the  company.  Of  course  I  invited 
Mrs.  Arp  first  and  foremost,  and  then  the  kindred  and  friends  who 
are  our  welcome  guests.  The  girls  fixed  up  the  vinegar  and  pepper 
and  butter  to  baste  the  meat  with  while  it  was  cooking,  and  they  made 
an  old-fashioned  Brunswick  stew,  and  I  roasted  a  lot  of  green  corn  in 
the  shuck  under  the  hot  ashes  at  one  end  of  the  pit,  and  while  every- 
thing was  in  a  weaving  way  about  twelve  o'clock  I  blowed  the  horn 
for  the  company,  and  about  a  score  of  them  came  down  and  were 
delighted  with  the  prospect  and  the  place.  Everybody  seemed  happy, 
especially  the  children,  and  Mrs.  Arp  organized  herself  a  toasting 
committee  of  one,  and  in  due  time  pronounced  it  all  very  good  and 
ready  for  business.  Gallant  gentlemen  carved  the  odorous  carcasses 
and  prepared  it  for  distribution!  The  stew  was  declared  splendid.  I 
noticed  that  the  married  women  all  flavored  it  with  hot  onion  sauce, 
and  it  always  seemed  strange  to  me  how  soon  after  marriage  a  woman 
begins  to  love  onions.  The  meats  came  on  in  due  time,  and  every- 
body got  a  sweet  and  juicy  rib.  The  ribs  are  the  best  .part  of  any- 
thing, and  I  reckon  that  is  why  a  woman  is  so  sweet,  for  she  was  made 
of  a  rib  while  man  was  made  of  dirt.  After  this  course  was  over  the 
girls  surprised  us  all  with  lemon  pies  and  cake  and  frozen  sherbet,  and 
after  that  we  all  rested  and  played  cards,  and  had  music  and  song  on 
the  banjo,  and  the  men  told  some  big  yarns,  which  the  young  ladies 
believed  and  the  old  ones  didn't.  Can't  fool  a  married  woman  long 
with  yarns.  One  of  our  party  told  about  hunting  deer  up  in  the 
Cohutta  mountains,  and  he  rode  up  a  cliff  so  steep  that  when  he  got 
most  to  the  top  he  pulled  the  top  burrs  from  a  pine  tree  a  hundred 
feet  high  that  grew  at  the  base  of  the  mountains.  Another  one  told 
about  killing  nineteen  wild  turkeys  at  one  shot  away  out  in  the 
Indian  nation  where  he  said  they  broke  down  the  trees,  and  there  was 
fifteen  thousand  killed  on  one  creek  in  the  month  of  December.  These 
sort  of  yarns  are  catching  and  one  calls  for  another,  and  so  I  was  just 
about  to  wade  in  when  I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Arp  was  perusing  me  and 
modestly  I  refrained  and  postponed  my  adventures  to  a  more  conven- 
ient season.     It  is  not  prudent  for  an  old  man   to  tell  the  heroic 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  73 

exploits  of  his  youth  if  his  wife  lived  iu  the  same  settlement  aud 
knows  his  raising,  and  so  I  never  do  brag  much  when  she  is  about. 

Well,  we  had  a  splendid  afternoon,  and  wound  it  up  with  melons 
from  the  spring,  and  then  adjourned  to  the  house  feeling  all  the  bet- 
ter for  this  little  episode  in  our  daily  life. 


74  The  Farm  and  The  Fieeside. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Trials  and  Trebulations. 

"  All  the  world's  a  stage,"  as  jNIr  Shakespeare  says,  and  all  the  men 
and  women  merely  travelers.  It  is  a  mighty  big  stage,  of  course — 
in  fact,  an  omnibus,  for  it  carries  us  all,  and  we  are  traveling  along 
and  getting  in  and  getting  out  all  along  the  line,  and  ever  and  anon  stop- 
ping by  the  wayside  to  nurse  our  sick  and  bury  our  dead.  There  is  noth- 
ing else  that  puts  on  the  brakes  as  we  move  down  the  big  road  on  the 
journey  of  life.  Sickness  and  death  are  a  veto  upon  all  progress,  and 
upon  plans,  and  schemes,  and  hopes,  and  ambition,  and  fame,  and  fash- 
ion and  folly.  We  suffer  awhile  ani  stop  awhile,  but  if  we  don't  die 
we  get  in  the  stage  again  and  move  on  with  the  crowd.  Sickness 
knocks  up  a  man  and  humbles  him  quicker  than  anything.  Just  let 
the  pitiless  angel  of  pain  come  along  suddenly  and  seize  him  by  some 
vital  part  and  twist  him  around  a  time  or  two  and  shake  him  up,  and 
he  will  know  better  what  the  word  torture  means  when  he  reads  it  in 
a  book.  I  thought  I  was  a  strong  man  and  tough,  and  so  the  angel 
has  had  no  terrors  for  me.  I've  had  the  toothache  and  mashed  my 
big  toe  with  a  crow-bar  and  got  around  lively  with  a  green-corn  dance, 
but  after  it  Avas  over  I  forgot  the  sting  of  it  and  only  remembered  the 
joke.  But  there  are  some  things  without  any  joke,  and  that  won't  let 
you  forget  'em,  and  when  they  come  and  go  they  leave  you  humbled 
and  hacked  and  meek  as  a  lamb  with  his  legs  tied.  They  take  away 
your  pride,  and  your  brag  and  your  starch  and  stiffening.  They  strip 
you  of  flowers  and  frills  and  thread  lace  and  jewelry  and  leave  a  poor 
mortal  like  a  dependent  beggar  for  the  charity  of  health,  good  health. 
"If  I  was  only  well  again,"  the  poor  victim  sighs;  "Oh,  if  I  was 
only  well  again." 

When  a  man  gets  along  to  my  age  he  forgets  that  he  is  on  the  down 
grade ;  that  he  is  like  a  second-hand  wagon  patched  up  and  painted 
and  sold  at  auction  to  the  highest  bidder.  It  will  run  mighty  well  on 
a  smooth  road  and  a  light  load  and  a  careful  driver,  but  it  won't  do  to 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  75 

lock  wheels  with  another,  or  run  into  a  gully,  or  over  stumps,  or  up  to 
the  hubs  in  the  low  grounds.  A  man  is  very  much  like  a  wagon,  any- 
how, for  his  shoulders  and  hips  are  the  axle-trees  and  his  arms  and 
legs  are  the  wheels  and  the  wagon-body  is  his  body  and  the  coupling 
pole  is  his  spine  and  the  hounds  are  his  kidneys — his  reins,  as  the 
Scriptures  call  'em — and  they  brace  up  everything  and  hold  up  the 
tongue  and  the  coupling  pole,  and  if  the  hounds  are  weak  and  rick- 
ety the  hind  wheels  don't  track  with  the  fore  wheels,  and  the  whole 
concern  moves  along  with  a  hitch  and  a  jerk  and  a  double  wabble. 
"He  tryeth  the  reins  of  the  children  of  men,"  for  that  was  the  test 
of  a  man.  If  the  kidneys  were  sound  and  well  ordered  the  man  was 
right  before  the  Lord,  for  in  them  was  supposed  to  be  centered  the 
affections  and  passions  and  emotions  of  a  man.  Those  oldtime  philos- 
ophers attached  a  good  deal  of  importance  to  the  kidneys,  but  I 
thought  it  was  a  superstition  of  their  ignorance,  and  I  never  cared 
much  about  my  kidneys.  In  fact,  I  didn't  care  whether  I  had  any 
kidneys  or  not,  for  I  was  a  thinking  what  Judge  Underwood  told  me  a 
long  time  ago  about  the  spleen,  which  he  said  was  only  put  there  to 
make  men  splenetic  and  cross,  and  keep  'em  from  getting  overjoyful 
in  this  subloonary  world.  I  thought  that  maybe  the  kidneys  were  like 
the  liver  of  a  man  over  in  California,  which  was  crushed  out  of  him 
in  a  mine  some  fifty  years  ago,  when  he  was  about  fifty  years  old,  but 
he  was  sewed  up  and  got  well,  and  he  is  a  hundred  years  old  and  not 
a  hair  turned  grey,  nor  a  wrinkle  come,  nor  his  eyes  grown  dim,  nor 
his  teeth  come  out,  and  he  keeps  well  and  sound  and  plumb  and  active, 
and  goes  to  balls,  and  never  has  an  ache  or  a  pain,  and  its  all  because 
his  liver  is  gone.     Jesso. 

Well,  you  see  I  had  promised  to  build  a  dam  across  the  branch 
down  in  the  willow  thicket  and  make  a  bathing  pool  for  the  children ; 
and  so  a  few  days  ago  I  went  at  it  with  a  will,  and  got  my  timbers 
across  and  my  boards  nailed  on  slanting  up  the  stream  to  a  rock  bottom, 
and  then  I  put  on  some  old  boots  and  old  clothes  and  went  to  chinkin' 
up  the  leaks  with  turf  and  gravel  and  willow  brush  and  sand  bags, 
and  as  fast  as  I  stopped  one  leak  another  broke  out ;  but  I  worked  fast 
and  worked  hard,  and  the  children  waited  on  me  and  brought  me 
material,  and  after  awhile  the  water  began  to  rise  on  me,  and  got 
higher  till  it  went  over  the  dam.  It  was  then  about  noon,  and  the 
hot  sun  was  blistering  down,  and  ihe  cold  spring  water  was  chilling 


76  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

me  up,  and  I  begun  to  feel  age  and  infirmity ;  so  I  took  a  bath  myself, 
and  put  on  dry  clothes  and  retired  to  rest  from  my  labors.  That 
evening  I  listened  to  the  shouts  of  happy  children  as  they  frolicked  in 
the  pool,  and  I  rejoiced,  for  it  always  makes  me  happy  to  see  them 
happy.  The  next  day  I  dident  get  up  well,  and  as  I  was  a  knockin' 
around  in  my  garden,  a  holdin'  up  my  back,  shore  enough,  without 
any  warnin',  the  unfeelin'  angel  of  pain  come  along  suddenly  and 
snapped  me  up  by  the  left  kidney  like  he  wanted  to  wrestle,  and  took 
all  underholt,  and  he  spun  me  around  with  such  a  jerk  I  almost  lost 
my  breath  with  agony,  and  he  pummeled  me  and  humped  me  all  the 
way  to  the  house,  and  threw  me  on  the  bed  while  I  hollered.  "What 
in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you,  William?"  says  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Arp,  says  she  to  me ;  and  the  children  all  gathered  round  and  thought 
I  was  snake  bit.  "I've  got  a  turrible  pain  round  here,"  says  I; 
"turrible,  turrible.  Oh,  Lordy!"  They  filled  up  the  stove  in  a 
hurry,  and  brought  water;  and  they  gave  me  camphor,  and  paregoric, 
and  one  thing  another;  but  I  got  worse,  and  groaned  and  grunted 
amazingly,  for  I  tell  you  I  was  a  sufferin'. 

"I  expected  it!  I  expected  it!"  says  Mrs.  Arp,  as  she  moved  round 
lively.  "I  just  knew  some  trouble  would  come  from  all  that  dam 
business  of  yesterday."  My  stomach  had  suddenly  got  out  of  order — 
I  don't  know  how — for  everything  they  give  me  come  up  before  it  was 
•down;  and  so  they  tried  salts  and  quinine  and  hot  water  and  pain- 
killer, and  morphine,  and  magnum  bonum  and  everything  in  the 
house,  but  nothing  would  stick,  and  at  last  the  pain  just  left  as  sud- 
denly as  it  came  on,  and  I  went  to  sleep.  But  my  system  was  all  out 
of  order;  the  machinery  wouldn't  work  nowhere.  The  cold  sweat 
poured  from  me  all  night,  and  I  dreamed  I  was  away  off  in  a  wet 
prairie,  lying  down  in  the  cold  grass,  hiding  from  a  herd  of  bufl^aloes, 
and  I  woke  up  with  a  shaking  ague  and  had  to  have  my  night  clothes 
changed  and  dried  off  like  a  race  horse.  The  morning  brought 
another  attack  still  worse  than  the  first,  but  the  good  Dr.  Kirkpatrick 
came  in  time  and  put  me  on  morphine  and  spirits  of  nitre,  a  hot  bath 
and  shortened  up  the  time,  and  told  me  my  trouble  was  in  the  kidneys, 
and  what  was  going  on,  and  when  he  left  me  I  was  easy  and  meek 
and  humble,  and  could  look  around  upon  wife  and  children  like 
nobody  w'as  a  sinner  but  me.  When  I  was  awake  I  could  look  up  at 
the  old  whitewash  that  was  peeling  off  from  the  ceiling  and  see  all 


The  Faioi  and  The  Fireside.  77 

sorts  of  pictures  I  never  saw  before.  They  took  shapes  innumerable, 
for  there  were  monkeys,  and  camels,  and  bears  and  buzzards,  and 
turtles,  and  big  Injuns,  and  little  Frenchmen,  and  old  witches,  and 
anacondas  and  other  menagerie  animals  all  out  of  shape,  and  funny 
and  fantastic;  and  while  I  was  asleep  I  dreamed  ridiculous  dreams, 
and  the  quinine  that  was  in  me  made  me  to  hear  waterfalls  and  mill- 
dams,  and  once  I  imagined  the  dam  I  had  built  had  grown  and  swelled 
until  Niagara  was  but  a  circumstance  compared  to  it.  But  alas,  there 
is  no  rest  for  the  wicked,  for  although  I  had  escaped  for  a  day  and 
night,  and  was  banking  upon  bright  hopes  and  returning  health,  the 
unfeeling  angel  came  along  again,  and  seeing  me  recovering 
from  the  fight,  began  on  me  with  a  second  assault,  and  beat  up  my 
left  kidney  again  till  it  was  all  in  a  jelly  and  as  sore  and  as  sensitive 
as  a  carbuncle.  "While  he  was  beating  me  I  seemed  to  hear  him  say, 
"You  didn't  know  you  had  kidneys,  did  you?  How  many  do  you 
think  you  have  now?"  "About  a  dozen,"  said  I;  " eight  or  ten  any- 
how, and  they  are  as  big  and  as  heavy  as  shot  bags."  The  fact  is  that 
my  left  side  was  so  sore  and  I  was  so  nervous  that  it  almost  gave  me 
a  spasm  to  think  of  anybody  touching  me  there  with  a  stick.  But 
the  torture  all  of  a  sudden  left  me,  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  and  the 
breath,  good  and  free,  could  get  way  once  more.  But  now  I  think  I 
am  all  safe,  and  Richard  is  himself  again.  Good  nursing  and  the 
doctor's  skill  and  patience  has  got  the  wagon  in  traveling  condition, 
and  now  I  think  I  will  make  friends  with  my  kidneys  and  a  treaty  of 
peace  with  the  angel,  and  the  treaty  is  that  I  am  to  build  no  more 
dams  during  life,  if  I  have  to  wade  in  the  water  to  do  it. 


78  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 


Love    Affairs. 

Married  and  gone.  It  is  the  same  old  story.  Love  and  courtship. 
Then  comes  the  engagement  ring  and  a  blessed  interval  of  fond  hopes 
and  happy  dreams,  and  then  the  happy  day  is  fixed — the  auspicious 
day  that  is  never  to  be  forgotten — a  day  that  brings  happiness  or  mis- 
ery and  begins  a  new  life.  Then  comes  the  license,  the  permit  of  the 
law  which  says  you  may  marry,  you  may  enter  into  bonds.  The 
State  approves  it  and  the  law  allows  it,  and  it  will  cost  you  only  a 
dollar  and  a  quarter.  Cheap,  isn't  it  ?  And  yet  it  may  be  very  dear. 
Then  comes  the  minister,  and  the  happy  pair  stand  up  before  him  and 
make  some  solemn  vows  and  listen  to  a  prayer  and  a  benediction,  and 
they  are  one.  In  a  moment  the  trusting  maid  has  lost  her  name  and 
her  free  will,  and  is  tied  fast  to  a  man.  Well,  he  is  tied  fast,  too,  so 
it  is  all  right  all  round,  I  reckon,  but  somehow  I  always  feel  more 
concern  about  the  woman  than  the  man.  She  is  a  helpless  sort  of  a 
creature  and  takes  the  most  risk,  for  she  risks  her  all. 

We  gave  him  a  cordial  welcome  into  the  family,  and  we  kissed  her 
lovingly  and  bade  them  good-bye,  and  the  children  threw  a  shower  of 
rice  over  them  and  an  old  shoe  after  them,  and  they  were  soon  on  their 
way  to  the  land  of  flowers.  She  was  not  our  child,  but  was  almost,  for 
Mrs.  Arp  was  the  only  mother  she  ever  knew,  and  we  loved  her. 

I  sat  in  my  piazza  ruminating  over  the  scene,  and  I  wondered  that 
there  were  as  many  happy  matings  as  there  seem  to  be.  Partners  for 
life  ought  to  be  congenial  and  harmonious  in  so  many  things.  W  hen 
men  make  a  partnership  in  business  they  can't  get  along  well  if  they 
are  unlike  in  disposition  or  in  moral  principle,  or  in  business  ways  and 
business  habits.  But  they  can  dissolve  and  separate  at  pleasure  and 
try  another  man, 

A  man  and  his  wife  ought  to  be  alike  in  almost  everything.  It  is 
said  that  folks  like  their  opposite,  their  counterparts,  and  so  they  do 
in  some  respects.     A  man  with  blue  eyes  goes  mighty  nigh  distracted 


The  FarjM  axd  Tiik  Fireside.  79 

over  a  woman  with  hazle  eyes.  I  did,  and  I'm  distracted  yet  when- 
ever I  look  into  them.  But  in  mental  qualities  and  emotional  quali- 
ties and  tastes  and  habits  and  princi})les  and  convictions  and  the  like, 
they  ought  to  class  together.  Indeed,  it  is  better  for  them  to  have 
the  same  politics  and  the  same  religion.  And  so  I  have  observed  that 
the  happiest  unions,  as  a  general  thing,  are  those  where  the  high  con- 
tracting parties  have  known  each  other  for  a  long  time,  and  have 
assimilated  from  their  youth  in  thought  and  feeling.  When  a  man 
goes  off  to  some  watering  place  and  waltzes  a  few  times  with  a  charm- 
ing girl  and  falls  desperately  in  love  and  marries  her  off"  hand,  it  is  a 
long  shoot  and  a  narrow  chance  for  happiness.  Why,  we  may  live  in 
the  same  town  with  people  and  not  know  as  much  about  them  as  we 
ought  to.  I  never  made  any  mistake  about  my  choice  of  a  partner 
for  the  dance  of  a  life,  but  I've  thought  of  it  a  thousand  times  that  if 
Mrs.  Arp  had  known  I  loved  codfish  and  got  up  by  daybreak  every 
morning,  she  never  would  have  had  me.  It  was  nip  and  tuck  to  get 
her  anyhow,  and  that  would  have  been  the  feather  to  break  the 
camel's  back.  Well,  I'm  mortal  glad  she  didn't  know  it,  though  I  am 
free  to  say  that  if  I  had  known  she  slept  until  the  second  ringing  of 
the  first  bell  for  breakfast  and  was  fond  of  raw  oysters,  it  would  have 
had  a  dampening  effect  upon  my  ardor  for  a  few  minutes,  only  a  few. 
But  I  have  seen  some  mighty  clever  people  eat  oysters  raw  and  sleep  late 
in  the  morning.  But  still  a  man  and  his  wife  can  harmonize  and  com- 
promise a  good  many  of  these  things,  and  it  is  a  beautiful  illustration 
of  this  to  see  Mrs.  Arp  cooking  codfish  for  me  and  fixing  it  all  up  so 
nice  with  eggs  and  cream,  and  it  is  a  touching  evidence  of  my  undy- 
ing devotion  to  her,  to  see  me  wandering  about  the  house  lonely  and 
forlorn  every  morning  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  forbidding  even  the 
cat  to  walk  heavy  while  she  sleeps.  That  codfish  business  comes  to 
me  honestly  from  my  father's  side,  and  my  mother  put  up  with  it 
like  a  good,  considerate  wife,  and  we  children  grew  up  with  an  idea 
that  is  was  good.  I've  heard  of  a  young  couple  who  got  married  and 
went  off  to  Augusta  on  a  tour,  and  the  feller  stuck  his  fork  into  a 
codfish  ball  and  took  a  bite.  He  choked  it  down  like  a  hero,  and 
when  his  beloved  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  replied :  ' '  Don't 
say  anything  about  it,  Mandy,  but  as  sure  as  you  are  born  there  is 
something  dead  in  the  bread." 

Well,  we  can  make  compromises  about  all  such  things  as  habits  and 


80  The  Farm  and  The  Fhieside. 

tastes,  but  there  are  some  things  that  won't  compromise  worth  a  cent.. 
If  a  girl  has  been  brought  up  to  have  a  good  deal  of  freedom,  and  thinks 
it  no  harm  to  go  waltzing  around  with  every  gay  Lothario  who  loves 
to  dance,  and  after  she  gets  a  feller  of  her  own,  wants  to  keep  at  it 
and  have  polluted  arms  around  her  waist,  she  had  just  as  well  sing 
farewell  to  conjugal  love  and  domestic  peace,  for  it  is  against  the  order 
of  nature  for  a  loving  husband  to  stand  it,  and  he  oughtn't.  There 
is  another  thing  that  ought  to  be  considered,  and  that  is  age.  A  few 
years  makes  no  difference,  but  an  old  man  had  better  be  careful  about 
marrying  a  young  wife.  He  wont  be  happy  but  about  two  weeks,  and 
then  his  misery  will  begin  and  it  will  never  end.  It  may  be  better 
for  a  woman  to  be  an  old  man's  darling  than  a  young  man's  slave,  but 
she  had  better  be  neither.  When  a  young  girl  marries  an  old  man  for 
his  money  she  has  gone  back  on  herself,  for  money  don't  bring  happi- 
ness. Money  helps,  but  money  with  a  dead  weight  is  a  curse — an 
aggravation.  I  was  talkmg  one  day  to  an  old  man,  a  Frenchman, 
who  had  made  a  hermit  of  himself,  and  was  living  all  alone  in  the 
woods,  and  he  said  :  "  Mine  frien',  I  have  make  one  grand  meestake. 
Mine  first  wife  whom  I  marry  ven  I  vas  young  vas  an  angel  from 
heaven,  God  bless  her,  but  mine  last  wife  she  did  not  come  from  up 
dere,  she  come  dis  vay — and  he  pointed  downwards.  "  I  vas  old  and 
she  vas  young.  I  had  money  and  she  had  none.  I  marry  her  in 
haste  and  repent  at  my  leisure.  I  try  to  live  wid  her  tree  years,  but 
we  were  not  compatible.  It  was  against  the  order  of  nature  and  I 
find  myself  a  fool  and  a  prisoner,  and  so  I  geeve  her  half  my  monies 
and  run  away  from  her  and  hide  in  dis  vilderness,  and  here  vill  I  live 
and  here  vill  I  die,  and  ven  I  go  oop  to  St.  Peter  and  tell  heem  how 
dat  voman  trouble  me  on  earth  de  good  man  vill  open  de  garden  gate 
and  say,  come  in  my  brother,  for  you  have  had  trouble  enough." 

Country  marriages  are  generally  happier  than  those  made  in  cities 
among  the  families  of  the  rich.  Children  raised  to  work  and  to  wait 
on  themselves  make  better  husbands  and  better  wives  than  those  raised 
in  luxury.  It  is  mighty  hard  for  a  man  to  please  his  wife  and  keep 
her  in  a  good  humor  if  she  has  been  petted  by  her  parents  and  never 
knew  a  want  and  had  no  useful  work  to  do.  She  soon  takes  the  ennui 
or  the  conniptions  or  the  "don't  know  what  I  want,"  and  must  go  back 
to  ma.  A  young  lady  who  never  did  anything  after  she  quit  school 
but  dress  for  company  and  make  visits  and  go  to  the  theatre  or  the 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  81 

dance,  wiW  never  make  a  good  wife.  This  wife  business  is  a  very 
serious  business.  It  is  right  hard  work  to  play  wife.  The  mother  of 
six,  eight  or  ten  children  has  seen  sights.  She  knows  what  care  is 
and  work  is,  and  one  of  these  do-nothing  women  can't  stand  it.  If 
she  is  a  used  up  institution  with  one  child,  two  will  finish  her,  and  if 
it  wasn't  for  condensed  milk  the  children  would  perish  to  death  in  a 
month  after  they  were  born,  and  sorter  like  the  cows  in  Florida.  I 
heard  a  Florida  man  say  the  other  day  that  a  Florida  cow  dident  give 
enough  milk  to  color  the  coffee  for  breakfast,  and  they  had  to  raise  the 
calves  on  the  bottle.  Getting  married  ought  to  be  a  considerate  bus- 
iness. Folks  oughtn't  to  get  married  in  a  hurry,  neither  ought  they 
to  wait  four  or  five  years ;  six  months  is  long  enough  for  an  engage- 
ment. I  don't  mean  children.  I  mean  grown  folks  who  have  settled 
down  in  life  and  know  what  they  are  about.  There  is  no  goodlier 
sight  in  all  nature  than  to  see  a  good-looking  healthy  young  man,  who 
is  making  an  honest  living,  standing  up  at  the  altar  with  a  pure,  sweet, 
good-tempered,  affectionate,  industrious  girl,  and  the  parents  on  both 
sides  approving  the  match.  Then  the  big  pot  ought  to  be  put  in  the 
little  pot,  and  everybody  rejoice. 


82  The  Farjvi  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


Tells   op  His  Wife's  Birthday. 

It  is  impossible  for  a  man  or  a  woman  either  to  be  calm  and  serene 
when  surprised  by  awful  and  terrible  things,  unless  they  are  always 
prepared  for  'em,  which  they  ain't.  I  have  been  wanting  to  see  some 
big  thing  all  my  life,  but  I  wanted  to  be  in  a  safe  place  while  it  hap- 
pened, and  at  a  very  respectable  distance.  I  would  like  to  have  been 
there  when  Vesuvius  run  over  and  swallowed  up  Herculaneum  and 
Pompeii,  and  I  want  to  feel  the  shake  of  a  big  earthquake  a  mile 
or  two  away  from  the  crack.  I  would  enjoy  a  storm  at  sea  and  a  gen- 
uine shipwreck  if  I  knew  we  were  to  strike  some  rock  not  far  from 
shore  and  eventually  be  saved.  I've  been  reading  every  now  and 
then  about  those  awful  storms  and  winds  that  of  late  years  have  been 
perusing  the  country  below  us  and  blowing  wagons  up  in  the  tree  tops 
and  shingles  through  solid  oak  trees  and  carrying  houses  away  and 
twist' ng  off  timber  like  it  was  wheat  straw,  and  I  thought  I  would  like 
to  see  a  young  cyclone  meandering  around,  just  to  get  the  hang  of  the 
thing,  and  shore  enough  a  little  one  come  along  here  last  Sunday  and 
made  a  call  without  any  premonition,  and  now  I'm  satisfied,  and  don't 
hanker  after  any  more  such  visitations.  We  were  sitting  on  the  piazza 
watching  the  black  clouds  as  they  loomed  up  in  the  west,  and  listening 
to  the  rumbling  thunder,  when  suddenly  the  roar  of  coming  winds  was 
heard,  and  the  storm  came  in  sight  over  the  brow  of  Mumford's  moun- 
tain, and  came  down  the  valley  before  us  with  the  big  drops  of  rain  in 
front,  and  then  the  hail  following  after,  and  the  wind  like  a  tornado.  We 
hurried  down  the  window  sash  and  took  in  the  chairs,  and  before  we 
knew  it,  it  took  two  of  us  to  shut  the  front  door,  and  so  we  retreated 
to  the  back  piazza,  and  by  the  time  we  got  there  the  roof  was  rattling 
like  a  million  buck-shot  was  being  poured  on  it  from  a  big  dump-cart 
away  up  yonder,  and  it  covered  the  ground  and  banked  up  in  the  back 
yard  about  three  inches  deep,  and  while  we  were  all  a  wondering  what 
the  thing  would  do  nest,   the  wind  shifted  around  and  around  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  83 

■come  from  the  east  as  hard  as  it  did  from  the  west,  and  pretty  soon  it 
was  coming  from  all  points  of  the  compass  and  everywhere  else  all  at 
once  and  slammed  all  the  doors  and  twisted  the  tree  tops  around  and 
around,  and  I  was  a-fixing  to  move  the  family  down  in  the  haseraent, 
when  suddenly  my  wife,  JNIre.  Arp,  says  she  to  me,  "Where  is  Carl 
and  where  is  Ralph?"  "They  are  down  in  the  barn,"  said  I  calmly. 
' '  They  are  all  safe,  for  the  barn  is  under  the  hill."  ' '  Merciful  heavens," 
said  she.  "I  know  something  will  happen  to  'em.  You  must  go  after 
'em."  So  I  put  on  the  oilcloth  and  fooled  round  for  an  umbrel  and 
couldn't  find  one,  and  it  wouldn't  have  been  any  more  than  a  fly  in  a 
hurricane  no  how,  and  I  heard  the  limbs  a-popping  and  saw  the  trees 
a-bending  and  the  hail  was  getting  bigger  and  more  thicker  and  more 
denser  and  I  knowed  the  little  boys  were  safe,  and  so  I  kept  foolin' 
round  and  round  until  shore  enough  I  dident  go  and  Mrs.  Arp  she 
calmed  down  a  little,  for  about  this  time  the  storm  abated  a  little,  and 
we  could  see  the  boys  looking  out  from  the  barn  windows.  I  aint 
tellin'  no  lie  when  I  say  that  fall  of  rain  and  hail  dident  last  more  than 
fifteen  minutes,  but  it  raised  the  branch  that  crosses  the  big  road  by 
my  house  five  feet  in  half  an  hour  and  spread  out  all  over  the  meadow 
and  up  and  down  the  road  for  a  hundred  yards,  and  a  nabor  come 
along  from  town  in  a  buggy  and  had  to  swim  it  horse  and  all,  and  he 
said  the  road  was  as  dry  as  a  powder  horn  at  Felton's  chapel,  and 
another  man  came  from  the  other  w^ay  and  said  it  was  all  dust  at 
Bishops,  and  this  showed  me  that  the  storm-path  was  only  about  a  mile 
wide,  and  it  was  obliged  to  have  been  a  cyclone,  for  we  have  heard  of 
it  going  on  about  the  same  way  and  tearing  things  up  fearfully.  One 
nabor  had  a  big  tree  blown  on  his  barn,  and  a  lad  of  a  boy  was  in 
there  and  it  skeered  him  so  he  tried  to  run  head  foremost  home,  and 
the  wind  picked  him  up  and  spun  him  round  like  a  hummin'  top  and 
then  laid  him  down  flat  and  told  him  to  stay  there,  and  he  stayed. 
The  oats  that  had  not  been  harvested  look  just  like  a  big  iron  roller 
had  been  rolled  over  'em  and  then  the  whole  concern  ironed  out  smooth 
with  a  flat  iron.  We've  been  mighty  busy  mowing  'em  with  the 
machine,  and  have  managed  to  save  'em  pretty  well,  though  it's  right 
hard  to  tell  which  is  the  best  end  of  the  bundles.  But  they  will  thrash 
all  the  same,  and  no  loss  on  our  side.  The  rail  fences  on  nabor  Cot- 
ton's hill  went  to  play  in'  Jack-straws,  and  the  corn  looks  like  the 
blades  had  all  been  drawn  through  a  shuck  riddle.     Nearly  all  my 


84  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

tomatoes  have  got  a  bruise  on  'em,  and  the  grapes  are  pretty  much  in 
the  same  fix.  Squash  leaves  and  cabbage  leaves  are  riddled  with  holes, 
but  after  all  I  can't  see  any  very  serious  damage,  and  we  are  trying  to 
be  calm  and  serene.  Well,  I  believe  the  cyclone  did  sorter  surprise 
two  nice  young  gentlemen  who  were  perusing  the  girls  at  our  house, 
and  when  they  went  out  in  the  hail  to  keep  their  horse  and  buggy 
from  running  away  the  storm  got  so  bad,  and  they  got  so  damp  and 
moist  aU  over,  they  had  to  go  home  prematurely,  which  we  didn't 
approve,  for  we  could  have  made  a  fire  and  dried  'em  in  a  few  minutes, 
or  they  could  have  put  on  some  of  my  garments  which  would  have 
been  more  than  a  foot  or  a  foot  and  a  half  too  short  at  both  ends. 
But  they  are  young  and  hopeful,  and  went  ofif  down  the  road  singing 
Hail  Columbia,  happy  land.  Hail  Boreas  and  be  hanged. 

We've  had  a  birthday  at  our  house.  There  are  big  birthdays  and 
little  ones,  common  ones  and  uncommon  ones,  when  the  female 
patriarch  of  a  family,  the  queen  of  the  household,  meets  her  60th 
birthday  and  has  got  too  much  good  sense  to  go  back  on  her  age  or  be 
ashamed  of  it,  it  is  an  event,  it  is,  sorter  like  a  golden  wedding  or  the 
declaration  of  independence  or  some  other  big  thing.  But  there  is  no 
collapse,  no  surrender,  no  let  down,  not  a  silver  thread  among  the 
raven  hair,  no  crow's  feet  or  wrinkled  brow,  no  loss  of  speech  or  lan- 
guage, no  weakness  of  memory.  Sometimes  I  wish  she  would  forget 
something,  but  she  can't,  and  my  short  comings,  like  Banquo's  ghost, 
come  up  before  me  ever  and  anon.  So  the  queen  had  a  birthday 
dinner  and  she  got  a  nice  new  dress  and  a  hall  lamp  and  a  beautiful 
chair  and  a  pair  of  peafowls  wherewith  to  raise  her  own  fly  brushes, 
and  that  night  we  had  music  and  dancing  and  song,  for  Solomon  says 
old  age  is  honorable,  and  I  never  could  see  any  good  sense  in  a  woman 
or  a  widower  trying  to  conceal  it.  I  never  expect  to  be  either  the  one 
or  the  other,  and  can't  appreciate  their  peculiar  feelings,  but  I  never 
hear  of  a  married  woman  concealing  her  advancing  years  but  what  I 
think  she  is  fixing  the  triggers  for  a  second  husband  before  the  first 
one  dies.  But  one  thing  is  certain — there's  no  triggers  about  our 
house,  and  there  will  be  no  step-father  to  my  children,  for,  as  Mrs. 
Arp  says,  sometimes  a  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire.     Jesso. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  85 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Mrs.  Arp  Goes  Off  on  a  Visit. 

Man  was  not  made  to  live  alone.  I  don't  mean  alone  like  Robinson 
Cruso,  but  alone  in  a  house  without  a  woman — a  help-mate,  a  pard. 
Its  an  awful  thing  to  come  in  and  find  the  maternal  chair  vacant, 
even  for  a  season.  I  know  she  has  gone,  but  still  I  imagine  that  she 
is  somewhere  on  the  premises  a  circulatin'  around  and  around.  I  am 
listenin'  for  the  rustle  of  her  dress  or  the  creak  of  her  nimble  shoe — 
she  wears  number  2's,  with  a  high  instep,-  and  walks  like  a  deer. 
Ever  and  anon  methinks  I  hear  her  accustomed  voice  saying,  William 
William — major,  come  here  a  moment. 

What  wonderful  resolution  some  women  have  got!  Mrs.  Arp  has 
at  last  departed.  She  has  undertook  a  journey.  For  several  weeks 
it  has  been  the  family  talk.  Some  said  she  would  get  off  and  some 
said  she  wouldent.  As  for  herself,  she  was  serious  and  non-committal, 
but  we  daily  observed  that  the  big  old  trunk  that  contained  the 
accumulated  fragments  of  better  days  was  being  diligently  ransacked. 
Scraps  of  lace,  and  lawn,  and  ribbon,  and  silk,  and  velvet,  and  mus- 
lin, and  bumbazeen,  and  cassimere  were  brought  forth  and  aired,  and 
the  flatiron  kept  busy  pressing  and  smoothing  the  wrinkles  that  age 
had  furrowed  in  them.  All  sorts  of  patterns  from  Demarest,  and 
Ehrick  and  Butterick,  were  over-hauled  and  consulted  with  a  kind  of 
sad  reality.  A  woman  may  be  too  poor  to  buy  calico  at  5  cents  a 
yard,  but  she  will  have  patterns.  Little  jackets,  and  pants,  and  shirts, 
little  dresses,  and  drawers,  and  petticoats,  and  aprons  had  to  be  made 
up,  and  nobody  but  her  knew  what  they  would  be  made  of.  I  tell 
you,  one  of  these  old-fashioned  mothers  is  a  mirical  of  grace.  It  aint 
uncommon  for  folks  nowadays  to  be  their  own  tailors  and  dressmakers, 
but  it  takes  sense  and  genius  to  get  up  a  respectable  outfit  from  scraps 
and  old  clothes  outgrown  or  abandoned  for  ratage  and  leakage.  It 
wa.s  wonderful  to  see  her  rip  'em,  and  turn  'em,  and  cut  'em,  and  twist 
"em — getting  a  piece  here  and  a  scrap  there,  cutting  them  down  to  the 


86  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

pattern — running  them  through  the  machine,  and  before  anybody 
knew  it  she  had  the  little  chaps  arrayed  as  fine  as  a  band-box  and 
never  called  on  anybody  for  a  nickel.  That's  what  I  call  the  quintes- 
sence of  domestic  economy.  Nobody  can  beat  her  in  that  line.  She 
knows  how  to  put  the  best  foot  foremost.  Her  children  have  got  to 
look  as  decent  as  other  people's,  or  she  will  keep  'em  at  home,  certain. 
She  don't  go  about  much,  and  seems  to  grow  closer  and  closer  to  the 
chimney  corner ;  but  when  she  does  move  its  a  family  sensation. 
Every  one  helps — every  one  advises  and  encourages  her  in  a  subdued 
and  respectful  way.  All  want  her  to  go  off  and  rest  and  have  a  good 
time  for  her  own  sake,  but  tell  her  over  and  over  how  much  they  will 
miss  her,  and  wear  a  little  shadow  of  sorrow  in  the  nigh  side  of  the 
face.  I  think  though  she  suspected  all  the  time  they  would  turn  up 
Jack  while  she  was  away. 

Well,  she  did  get  off  at  last — on  a  three  hours'  journey  and  to  stay  a 
whole  week.  It  was  a  tremeudious  undertaking,  for  she  said  the  har- 
ness might  break,  or  the  buggy  collapse,  or  the  old  mare  run  away  on 
the  road  to  town,  and  the  cars  might  run  off  the  track  or  break 
through  a  bridge,  or  not  stop  long  enough  for  her  to  get  off  with  the 
children,  or  let  her  off  and  take  the  children  on,  or  some  of  us  would 
get  sick,  or  the  house  catch  afire,  or  some  tramp  come  along  in  the 
night  and  rob  us  and  cut  all  our  throats  while  we  were  asleep,  and 
we  wouldent  know  a  thing  about  it  till  next  morning. 

"Now,  William,"  said  she,  "be  mighty  careful  of  everything,  for 
you  know  how  poor  we  are  anyhow."  "Poor  as  Lazarus,"  said  I  "but 
he's  a  restin'  in  Abraham's  bosom."  "Well,  never  mind  Lazarus," 
said  she,  "the  paregoric  and  quinine  and  turpentine  are  on  the  shelf 
in  the  cabinet.  I  have  hid  the  laudanum,  for  its  dangerous,  and  you 
havent  more  than  half  sense  in  the  night  time,  and  might  make  a  mis- 
take. Don't  let  Ralph  have  the  gun  nor  go  to  the  mill  pond.  There 
are  four  geese  a  setting,  and  you  must  look  after  the  goslins,  and  if 
you  don't  shoot  that  hawk  spring  chickens  will  be  mighty  scarce  on 
this  lot.  And  see  here,  William,  I  want  you  to  take  the  beds  off  the 
bedsteads  in  my  room  and  shut  the  doors  and  windows  and  make  a  fire 
of  sulphur  in  some  old  pan.  They  say  it  will  just  kill  everything." 
"Must  I  stay  inside  or  outside,"  said  I,  in  a  Cassibianca  tone.  "May 
be  you  had  better  try  it  awhile  inside,"  said  she,  "just  to  see  if  you 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  87 

ever  could  get  used  to  it.  Now,  William,  take  good  care  of  every- 
thing, for  you  may  never  see  me  again.  Somehow  I  feel  like  some- 
thing's going  to  happen  to  me.  Don't  Avhip  Ralph  while  I'm  gone — 
the  poor  boy  aint  well — he  looks  right  pekid — and  when  you  whipped 
Carl  the  other  day  the  marks  were  all  over  his  little  legs."  She 
always  looks  for  marks — the  little  willows  are  soft  as  broom  straws,  but 
she  is  bound  to  find  a  faint  streak  or  two,  and  there's  a  tear  for  every 
mark. 

"William,  the  buttons  are  all  right  on  your  shirts.  Feed  the  little 
chickens  till  I  come  back.  I  think  the  buntin  hen  is  setting  some- 
where, and  there's  six  eggs  in  my  drawer  that  old  Browny  laid  on  ray 
bed.  If  the  children  get  sick  you  must  telegraph  me."  "And  if  I 
get  sick  myself,"  said  I,  inquiringly — "Why  there's  the  medicine  in 
the  cabinet,"  said  she,  "and  you  musent  forget  to  water  my  pot-plants. 
I  told  Mr.  Freeman  to  look  after  you  and  the  boys,  and  Mrs.  Freeman 
will  keep  an  eye  on  the  girls.  Goodbye.  Don't  you  cut  the  hams.  I 
want  them  for  company,  and  don't  go  in  the  locked  pantry."  I  reckon 
she  must  have  taken  the  key  off  with  her,  for  we  can't  find  it.  "Good- 
bye— take  care  of  Bows."  She  kissed  us  all  round  and  choked  up  a 
little  and  dropped  a  few  tears  and  said  she  was  ready.  I  looked  at  the 
clock  and  told  her  we  could  barely  make  it — five  miles  in  an  hour  and 
five  minutes,  and  the  road  muddy  and  the  mule  slow.  She  said  she 
had  never  been  left  by  the  train  in  her  life,  and  she  didn't  think  she 
would  be  too  late.  I  pressed  the  old  mule  through  mud  and  slop,  up 
hill  and  down  hill.  She  was  afraid  of  that  mule,  and  when  I  larruped 
him  she  told  me  not  to.  Then  he  would  put  on  the  breaks,  and  she 
declared  she  would  be  left  if  I  dident  drive  faster.  We  dident  say 
much  but  leaned  forward  and  pressed  forward  in  solemn  energy  as  if 
the  world  hung  upon  the  crisis.  When  we  got  within  half  a  mile  of 
town  the  whistle  blowed  away  down  the  road  and  we  had  a  slick  hill 
to  clime.  I  larroped  heavily  and  clucked  every  step  of  the  way,  and 
we  made  the  trip  just  in  time  to  be  left.  The  train  moved  off  right 
before  us.  It  didn't  seem  to  care  a  darn.  We  gazed  at  it  with  feel- 
ings of  sublime  despair.  Mrs.  Arp  was  looking  dreamily  away  off 
into  space  when  I  ventured  to  remark,  "shall  we  go  back?"  She 
quietly  pointed  to  the  St.  James  and  replied,  "hotel." 

I  saw  her  and  little  Jessie  comfortably  quartered  in  a  nice  room 


88  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

with  a  cheerful  fire.  Mr.  Hoss,  the  landlord,  was  kind  and  sympa- 
thetic and  promised  she  should  not  be  left  by  the  morning  train,  and 
so  bidding  them  a  sad  goodbye,  I  returned  to  my  bairns.  Take  it  all  in 
all  it  was  a  big  thing — a  mighty  big  thing  at  my  house.  I'm  poking 
around  now  hunting  for  consolation.  She  knows  I'm  desolate  and  is 
sorter  glad  of  it.  I  know  she  is  homesick  already  but  she  wont  own 
it.  She  would  stay  away  a  whole  year,  before  she  would  own  it.  She 
wants  me  to  beg  her  to  come  back  soon,  and  I  won't,  for  she  left  her 
other  little  darling  with  me,  and  he  will  bring  her,  I've  half  a  mind 
to  drop  her  a  postal  card  and  say:  "Carl  is  not  well,  but  don't  be 
alarmed  about  him,"  and  then  go  to  meet  her  on  the  first  train  that 
could  bring  her,  for  I  know  she  would  be  there.  It  does  look  like  a 
woman  with  ten  children  wouldent  be  so  foolish  about  one  of  them, 
but  there's  no  discount  on  a  mother's  anxiety.  Her  last  command 
was,  "keep  Carl  with  you  all  the  time,  and  tuck  the  cover  under  him 
good  at  night,  bless  his  little  heart."  I  wonder  what  would  become  of 
children  if  they  didn't  have  a  parent  to  spur  'em  up.  In  fact,  it  takes 
a  couple  of  parents  to  keep  things  straight  at  my  house.  Yesterday  the 
gray  mule  broke  open  the  gate  and  let  the  cow  and  calf  together.  Carl 
left  open  another  gate  and  the  old  sow  got  in  the  garden.  Another 
boy  has  got  a  felon  on  his  finger,  and  whines  around  and  says  his  ma 
could  cure  it  if  she  was  here.  He  can't  milk  now,  and  so  I  thought 
I  would  try  it,  but  old  Bess  wouldn't  let  nary  drop  down  for  me.  I 
squeezed  and  pulled  and  tugged  at  her  until  she  got  mad  and  sud- 
denly lifted  her  foot  in  my  lap  and  set  it  down  in  the  bucket,  where- 
upon I  forgot  my  equlibrium,  and  when  I  got  up  I  gave  old  Bess  a 
satisfactory  kick  in  the  side  and  departed  those  coasts  in  great  humility. 
It's  not  my  forte  to  milk  a  cow.  The  wind  blew  over  more  trees 
across  my  fences.  The  clock  run  down.  Two  lamp  chimneys 
bursted.  The  fire  popped  out  and  burnt  a  hole  in  the  carpet  while 
we  were  at  supper,  and  everything  is  going  wrong  just  because  Mrs. 
Ai'i^'s  gone. 

It's  mighty  still,  and  solemn,  and  lonely  around  here  now.  Lonely 
aint  the  word,  nor  howlin'  wilderness.  There  aint  any  word  to  express 
the  goneness  and  desolation  that  we  feel.  There  is  her  vacant  chair 
in  the  corner — 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  89 

Yes,  the  rocker  still  is  sitting 

Just  where  she  was  ever  knitting — 
Knitting  for  the  bairns  she  bore. 

And  now  the  room  seems  sad  and  dreary, 

And  my  soul  is  getting  weary, 
And  my  heart  is  sick  and  sore — and  so  forth. 

The  dog  goes  whining  round — the  malteese  cats  are  mewing  and  the 
-children  look  lost  and  droopy.  But  we'll  get  over  it  in  a  day  or  two, 
may  be,  and  then  for  a  high  old  time. 


90  The  Faem  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


The  Voice  of  Spring. 

Hark,  I  hear  a  bluebird  sing, 
And  that's  a  sign  of  coming  spring. 
The  bull-frog  bellers  in  the  ditches. 
He's  throwed  away  his  winter  britches. 
The  robin  is  bobbin  around  so  merry, 
I  reckon  he's  drunk  on  a  China  berry. 
The  hawk  for  infant  chickens  watcheth, 
And  'fore  you  know  it  one  he  cotcheth. 
The  lizzard  is  sunning  himself  on  a  rail; 
The  lamb  is  shaking  his  newborn  tail. 
The  darkey  is  plowing  his  stubborn  mule, 
And  gaily  hollers,  "gee,  you  fool.'' 
King  Cotton  has  unfurled  his  banner, 
And  scents  the  air  with  sweet  guanner. 
The  day  grows  long — the  night's  declimng, 
The  Indian  summer's  sun  is  shining, 
The  smoking  hills  are  now  on  fire, 
And  every  night  it's  climbing  higher. 
The  water  warm,  the  weather  fine, 
The  time  has  come  for  hook  and  line ; 
Adown  the  creek,  around  the  ponds, 
Are  gentlemen  and  vagabonds. 
And  all  our  little  dirty  sinners 
Are  digging  bait  and  catching  minners.     . 
The  dogwood  buds  are  now  a-swelling, 
And  yaller  jonquills  sweet  are  smelling; 
The  little  busy  bees  are  humming, 
And  everything  says  spring  is  coming. 

It  has  been  a  hard  old  winter  on  man  and  beast.  Hard  in  weather 
and  harder  in  fire  and  flood  and  pestilence,  and  all  sorts  of  unnatural 
troubles.  The  horrors  of  hotels  burning  up,  and  theatres  and  circus- 
ses  shrouded  in  flames,  and  thousands  of  poor  people  made  homeless 
and  destitute  by  the  raging  waters,  and  smallpox  marking  its  victims 
all  over  the  land,- is  pitiful,  most  pitiful,  but  I  can't  get  over  the  shock 


COBE. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  93 

of  those  poor  little  children  who  were  trampled  to  death  in  that 
school-room  in  New  York  City.  I  can't  help  but  seeing  them  all  laid 
out  in  the  room  together,  and  their  parents  hovering  over  their  little 
disfigured  and  mangled  corpses.  The  distressing  scene  haunts  me. 
There  is  a  power  of  trouble  in  the  world  that  we  know  nothing  about 
— trouble  that  we  who  live  in  the  country  do  not  have.  Here  there 
are  no  storms,  no  floods,  no  fires,  no  pestilence,  no  scarcity  of  wood,  or 
of  food,  or  comfortable  clothing.  A  poor  man  in  the  country  is  safer 
from  all  calamity  than  a  rich  one  in  the  city.  A  poor  man  may 
lament  his  poverty  and  envy  the  rich,  but  he  has  no  reason  to.  A 
man  who  makes  a  comfortable  living  on  a  farm  has  a  greater  security 
for  life  and  liberty  and  happiness  and  long  life  than  any  other  class 
that  I  know  of.  Cobe  says  he  is  getting  along  "tolerable  well,  I  thank 
you."  Cobe  is  always  calm  and  serene.  He  owns  a  mouse-colored 
mule,  and  has  owned  him  ever  since  the  war.  That  mule  is  one  of 
the  family  and  he  knows  it.  The  children  play  under  him  and  over 
him,  and  between  his  legs,  and  the  mule  is  happy  too.  Cobe  has  a 
chunk  of  a  cow  and  a  sow  and  pigs,  and  about  enough  old  rickety  fur- 
niture to  move  in  one  wagon  load,  and  that's  all  Cobe  has  got  except 
his  wife  and  half  a  dozen  little  children,  who  live  on  corn  bread  and 
taters.  And  they  are  smart  children,  and  healthy  and  good  looking, 
though  Cobe  is  called  the  ugliest  man  in  the  county,  and  I  think 
enjoys  his  reputation.  His  face  is  of  three  colors  and  splotched  about, 
and  his  mouth  is  in  a  twist  one  way  and  his  nose  in  another,  and  his 
eyes  are  of  a  different  color,  and  he  is  hump-shouldered  and  walks 
pigeon-toed,  but  he  don't  care.  His  wife  says  he  is  just  the  best  little 
man  in  the  world.  He  works  hard,  he  and  the  mule,  and  always  says 
he  is  getting  along  "tolable,"  and  finds  no  more  trouble  in  supporting 
six  children  than  he  did  one.  He  says  there  never  was  a  'possum 
born  that  dident  find  a  'simmon  tree  somewhere.  Says  he  is  raising 
his  boys  more  for  endurance  than  for  show — for  another  war  will  come 
along  about  their  time  of  day  and  he  wants  'em  to  be  able  to  stand  it. 
Cobe  is  an  honest  man,  and  came  from  an  honest  family,  and  his  wife 
did  too,  and  their  children  are  well-mannered  and  they  are  getting  a 
little  schooling,  and  my  opinion  is,  that  there  is  more  hope  and  better 
hope  for  the  country  in  that  kind  of  stock  than  in  the  average  chil- 
dren of  the  rich.  They  will  make  good,  humble,  law-abiding  citizens, 
and  they  will  work  and  produce  something.     When  war  or  trouble 


94  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

comes,  it  is  the  yeomanry  of  the  laud  we  have  to  depend  on.  The 
children  of  the  poor  are  running  this  Southern  country  now.  They 
are  the  foremost  men  in  most  everything.  They  are  the  best  mer- 
chants in  Atlanta  and  other  cities — the  best  farmers,  the  best  mechan- 
ics and  the  best  railroad  men.  Some  of  'em  make  splendid  bankers, 
if  they  do  spell  hog  with  a  double  g.  Grammar  may  deceive,  but  fig- 
ures don't  lie. 

We  are  all  mighty  busy  now  in  these  parts.  I  can  sit  in  my  piazza 
and  see  over  a  good  deal  of  farming  territory,  and  the  mules  are  mov- 
ing up  lively.  They  seem  to  know  the  spring  is  late,  and  the  farmers 
are  behind  time.  But  I  don't  sit  long  at  a  time,  for  the  garden  is  to 
plant,  and  the  rose  bushes  have  to  be  trimmed,  and  the  flower  beds 
dressed  off*,  and  the  compost  scattered  around,  and  the  vines  want  new 
trellaces,  and  everything  got  ready  for  a  suit  of  new  clothes.  The  old 
year  is  just  now  dead,  and  the  new  one  is  born  with  the  spring. 
March  used  to  be  the  first  month  and  it  ought  to  be  now.  I  don't  see 
what  they  ever  changed  it  for.  One  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago 
our  English  forefathers  took  a  notion  to  set  old  Father  Time  back  a 
couple  of  months,  without  any  good  reason  for  it,  and  I  think  we 
ought  to  move  up  the  clock  and  put  him  forward  where  he  was.  The 
spring  is  the  new  birth  of  nature,  and  is  the  type  of  our  own  resur- 
rection. I  don't  believe  that  everything  that  dies  will  live  again,  but 
I  do  believe  that  everything  that  is  good  and  beautiful  will,  even  to 
animals,  trees  and  flowers.  This  is  a  mighty  pretty  world  we  live  in  — 
mighty  pretty,  especially  in  the  spring,  and  for  fear  of  accidents,  I  am 
willing  to  be  a  tenant  a  good  while  longer. 

"I  would  not  live  always, 
I  ask  not  to  stay," 

is  a  very  beautiful  sentiment,  provided  a  man  is  sure  of  a  better  home 
when  he  quits  this  one.  But  another  poet  sung  with  more  caution  and 
content  when  he  said : 

"This  world  is  very  lovely — oh,  my  God, 
I  thank  thee  that  I  live." 

I  reckon  the  majority  of  mankind  are  like  the  fellow  who  said  he 
dident  want  to  go  to  heaven  if  he  had  to  die  to  get  there.  Many 
would  like  for  the  ages  of  Adam  and  Methusaleh  to  come  back  again. 
It  Avouldent  do,  though — it  wouldent  do  at  all,  for  if  Jay  Gould  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  95 

Vanderbilt  aud  compauy  »liouId  live  a  thousaud  years  they  would 
gobble  up  tlie  whole  terrestrial  concern  and  crowd  us  all  off  onto  a 
plank  in  the  ocean.  On  the  whole  I'm  obliged  to  think  that  every- 
thing is  fixed  up  about  right — I  reckon  it  is. 


96  The  FaPuM  and  The  FiEEsn)E. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


The  Love  of  Money. 

Money  is  a  right  good  thing  and  no  sensible  man  will  turn  up  his 
nose  at  it.  Money  brings  comfort  and  leisure,  and  Solomon  says  in 
leisure  there  is  wisdom.  A  man  who  has  to  be  digging  away  every 
day  for  a  living  don't  have  much  time  to  read  and  reflect  and  rumi- 
nate. It  don't  matter  whether  he  is  a  merchant  or  mechanic  or  farmer 
or  a  professional  man,  if  he  works  hard  all  day  he  wants  to  rest  at 
night. 

Money  promotes  domestic  tranquility  and  that  is  the  biggest  and 
best  thing  I  know  of.  But  money  ought  to  be  hard  to  get,  so  that  its 
real  value  may  be  appreciated — money  has  to  be  earned  to  be  prized. 
If  it  is  inherited  or  drawn  in  a  lottery  or  won  at  games  of  chance  or 
found  in  the  road  or  obtained  by  lucky  speculation  in  stocks  or  bonds 
or  cotton  futures,  it  goes  at  a  discount.  It  is  undervalued  and  don't 
stick  to  a  man  long.  A  fortune  gained  in  a  year  rarely  sticks  to  any- 
body. Luck  is  a  right  good  thing  when  it  follows  along  with  labor 
and  honesty,  but  luck  by  itself  is  a  deceiver.  "Trust  to  luck"  is  the 
devil's  maxim.  I  knew  a  hard  working  man  who  was  so  anxious  to 
get  ahead  that  he  stinted  his  family  and  invested  part  of  his  earnings 
in  the  Louisiana  lottery  for  five  years  and  never  drew  but  ten  dollars. 
He  told  me  he  had  lost  five  hundred  dollars  that  way,  and  every  time 
he  saw  the  list  published  of  the  lucky  numbers  and  read  about  the 
lucky  men  who  drew  the  prizes  it  fired  him  up  and  he  tried  it  again. 
Sometimes  I  wish  Uncle  Jubal  and  General  Beauregard  would  tote 
fair  and  publish  a  list  of  them  fellows  who  dident  draw  anything. 
But  I  reckon  that  would  be  so  long  and  occupy  so  many  columns  in 
the  newspapers  they  couldent  afford  it. 

It  is  just  human  I  know  to  want  more  money  than  we  have  got, 
especially  if  we  are  hard  run  and  living  on  a  strain.  I  want  more 
myself,  and  if  I  was  to  find  a  hundred  dollars  in  the  road  I  couldent 
help  hoping  that  the  owner  would  never  miss  it,  and  never  call  for  it. 


The  Farm  and  The  Ffreside.  97 

Just  like  a  boy  who  finds  a  pocket  knife  and  feels  like  it  is  his,  but 
that  sort  of  money  is  not  as  solid  and  satisfactory  as  money  we  work 
for.  I  know  an  old  preacher  who  had  ten  dollars  and  his  son  had  ten 
dollars  and  the  young  man  went  down  to  Atlanta  and  took  all  the 
money  to  buy  some  things,  and  he  came  across  a  wheel  of  fortune 
and  saw  a  fellow  win  ten  dollars  just  as  easy,  and  so  he  was  persuaded 
to  try  his  luck,  and  shore  enough  he  won  ten  dollars,  and  it  hope  him 
up  mightily  and  he  tried  it  again  and  won  some  more,  and  he  kept 
on  until  he  had  won  fifty  dollars  and  become  a  fool,  for  right  then  his 
luck  changed  and  he  lost  it  all  and  his  ten  dollars  and  his  daddy's  ten 
besides,  and  had  to  borrow  a  dollar  and  a  half  to  get  home  on,  and 
like  to  have  perished  to  death  in  the  bargain.  Well,  he  belonged  to 
the  church  and  they  had  him  up  and  tried  him  and  he  made  a  clean 
breast  and  told  how  he  was  overtaken  and  tempted  and  how  he  went  on 
and  on  until  he  had  made  fifty  dollars  clean.  "And  right  there"  said 
the  old  man,  "is  whar  John's  sin  begun.  If  he  had  stopped  right  there 
it  would  have  been  all  right  but,  like  a  fool  he  went  on  and  on  to 
destruction."  Well,  John  wasent  such  a  dreadful  sinner  after  all,  for  he 
wanted  the  money  to  buy  something  to  please  the  old  folks.  But 
money  don't  come  that  easy  very  often.  I  know  a  man  who  has  been 
kept  on  a  strain  for  five  years  working  out  of  his  losses  on  cotton 
futures.  Sometimes  luck  runs  along  with  a  man  for  ten  years  and 
more  and  that  makes  him  vain  and  he  thinks  his  judgment  is  infallible 
and  suddenly  he  collapses  like  Seney  and  Eno  and  Keene.  No  money 
is  safe  except  that  made  by  honest  men. 

The  rewards  of  labor  are  mighty  good  and  sure.  Here  I  set  in  my 
piazza  and  look  over  my  farm  and  see  the  wheat  and  the  oats  all  in  a 
strut  and  waving  so  beautiful  in  the  breeze,  and  I  feel  proud  and 
serene,  for  I  sowed  that  wheat  myself  and  helped  to  prepare  the  land, 
and  it  is  my  wheat  and  my  oats  and  come  honestly  and  wasent  made 
out  of  somebody  else,  and  it  does  me  good  to  cut  a  few  choice  heads 
and  bunch  'em  and  take  'em  to  town  and  show  the  folks  what  I  can  do. 
It  beats  money  made  by  luck  all  to  pieces,  and  so  does  walking  in  my 
garden  and  digging  the  potatoes  I  planted  and  working  them  ever  so 
nice  and  bringing  them  in  the  house  to  show  to  my  wife  and  hear  her 
say,  "they  are  very  fine."  She  never  says  much  on  that  line,  she 
don't,  but  a  little  goes  a  great  ways  with  me.  She  never  indulges  in 
rapture;    she  never  uses  adjectives  to  any  excess,   such  as  lovely, 


98  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

exquisite,  splendid  and  the  like,  but  I  know  what  she  thinks  about 
anything  just  as  well  as  if  she  did.  I'm  going  to  get  her  a  mess  of 
raspberries  to-day,  the  first  of  the  season,  and  I'll  surprise  her  with  'em 
at  dinner  time.  She  likes  that.  Women  like  these  little  thoughtful 
attenti(jns.  They  are  like  oil  on  the  axletree,  and  makes  the  ma- 
chinery run  smooth.  But  then  there  ought  to  be  a  little  money  to 
mix  up  with  such  things.  Money  is  a  good  domestic  lubricator  itself. 
A  man  feels  more  like  a  gentleman  with  some  change  in  his  pocket, 
and  he  ought  to  always  have  a  dollar  or  so  just  to  feel  of.  It  stiffens 
him  up  and  keeps  him  from  feeling  like  a  vagabond.  And  woman 
wants  some  too.  When  a  pedler  comes  along  with  tin  ware,  or  a 
wagon  load  of  jugs,  or  the  Gypsies  come  along  with  lace,  or  the  book 
agent  comes  along  with  pictures ;  and  besides  it  is  such  a  dignified 
comfort  to  have  a  little  hid  away  for  the  children  when  they  are  just 
obliged  to  have  something  to  wear  and  don't  want  to  ask  papa  for  the 
money,  for  he  is  so  hard  run  and  talks  so  poor  all  the  time. 

This  is  the  money  that  goes  for  all  it  is  worth.  Money  that  comes 
hard,  money  that  is  earned.  Even  woman  does  not  prize  money 
when  she  has  oodles  of  it  and  has  every  want  supplied.  Folks  must 
be  cramped  to  be  happy.  They  must  have  something  to  stimulate 
them.  Something  to  provoke  economy  and  industry  and  I'm  thankful 
we've  always  had  these  stimulants  at  my  house. 


The  Farm  and  The.  Fireside.  99 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


CoBE  Talks  a  Little. 

"Everything  is  adopted."  Says  I,  "  Cobe,  you  musent  say  adopted, 
for  you  mean  adapted."  "Well,  I  reckon  so,"  says  he,  "Everything 
is  adapted.  Everything  fits  to  everything.  There  is  that  houn'  dog 
a-runnin'  that  rabbit  and  the  dog  is  adopted  to  the  rabbit  and  the  rab- 
bit is  adopted  to  the  dog.  One  Avas  made  for  the  tother  to  run.  If 
there  wasent  any  rabbits  there  wouldent  be  any  houn'  dogs.  Boys  is 
adopted  to  squirrels.  If  there  wasent  any  boys  there  wouldent  be  any 
squirrels.  If  there  wasent  any  chickens  there  wouldent  be  any  hawks, 
for  hawks  is  adopted  to  chickens,  and  if  there  wasent  any  chickens 
and  birds  there  wouldent  be  any  bugs  and  worms ;  and  the  bugs  and 
worms  is  adopted  to  the  leaves  and  vegetables,  and  there  is  always 
enough  left  of  everything  for  seed  and  for  white  folks  to  live  on. 
Hogs  is  adopted  to  acorns,  and  if  there  wasent  any  hogs  there  wouldent 
be  more  than  eight  or  ten  acorns  on  a  tree — just  enough  for  seed;  and 
hogs  is  adopted  to  folks,  and  if  there  wasent  any  folks  there  wouldent 
be  any  hogs.  There  wouldent  be  any  use  for  'em.  I'll  tell  you, 
major,  everything  was  fixed  up  about  right,  as  shore  as  you're  born, 
and  most  everything  was  fixed  up  for  us.  Hogs  has  got  sausage  meat 
and  tripe  and  cracklins,  and  souse  and  backbone  and  sparerib  and  lard 
and  ham  and  shoulder  and  jowl  to  eat  with  turnip-greens,  and  it's  all 
mighty  good  and  its  all  adopted." 

"That  is  all  so,  Cobe,"  said  I;  "everything  is  adapted  whether  it  is 
adopted  or  not." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "and  I've  noticed  it  for  a  long  time,  when  the 
wheat  is  cut  off  the  land  the  grass  comes  up  for  hay,  and  if  we  cut  it 
off  another  crop  comes  up  and  keeps  the  hot  sun  off  the  land  and  one 
crop  follows  another,  and  if  we  make  a  poor  crop  one  year  we  make  a 
better  one  the  next  year,  and  if  we  don't  we  can  live  on  hope  and 
cut  down  expenses  and  work  the  harder  to  fix  up,  and  some  how 
or  other  or  somehow  else  we  all  get  along,  and  when  there  is  a  gap  we 


100  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

fill  it  up  with  something,  and  we  all  get  along  and  nobody  perishes  to 
death  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  for  everything  fits  and  everything  is 
adopted." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "Cobe,  that  is  all  so — not  only  so,  but  also,  but 
there  are  a  heap  of  things  come  along  that  don't  seem  to  be  adopted, 
as  you  call  it.  Here  comes  the  army  worm,  and  the  grasshoppers, 
and  the  caterpillars,  and  all  sorts  of  vermin,  and  they  are  not 
adapted,  and  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  them?  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  snakes,  mad  dogs,  and  storms,  and  pestilence,  and 
diptheria,  and  smallpox,  and  all  such  afflictions?  Are  they  adopted 
or  are  they  adapted,  or  what  are  they  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,"  says  Cobe,  "I'll  tell  you.  I  havn't  been  troubled  with 
them  things  yet,  but  if  I  was  I  know  there  would  be  some  oflset. 
Something  to  balance  the  account.  I  never  knowed  a  man  to  have  a 
big  trouble  but  what  there  was  something  to  balance  off*  the  trouble. 
I  never  knowed  a  man  to  go  to  Texas  but  what  he  writ  back  that 
there  wasn't  anything  to  brag  off  alter  he  got  there.  The  good  things 
of  this  life  are  pretty  equally  distributed  if  we  only  did  know  it.  A 
rich  man  haint  got  much  advantage  of  a  poor  man  if  the  poor  man  is 
any  account.  Some  poor  folks  is  bad  stock  and  don't  want  to  work 
and  goes  about  grumbling.  They  is  just  like  a  bad  stock  of  horses  or 
cattle  or  dogs  and  ought  to  die  out  and  quit  the  country.  We  don't 
send  round  the  settlement  to  git  a  poor  dog  or  a  poor  cat,  or  a  poor 
hog  or  a  poor  cow.  We  want  a  good  stock  of  anything ;  and  there  is 
about  the  same  difference  in  folks  that  there  is  in  anything  else. 
There  are  some  rich  folks  that  are  clever  and  some  that  are  mean — 
some  grind  you  down  and  some  help  you  up,  but  them  who  grind  you 
down  don't  have  much  enjoyment.  They  are  too  mean  to  enjoy  good 
health.  They  are  never  happy  unless  they  are  miserable.  I'd  rather 
be  poor  than  to  be  some  rich  men  that  I  know.  My  children  have  a 
better  time  eating  simmons  and  black  haws  and  digging  gubbers  and 
hunting  possums  than  their  children  do  in  getting  to  parties  and  wear- 
ing fine  clothes  and  fussing  with  one  another  and  doing  nothing  for  a 
living.  There  is  nothing  like  work — working  for  a  living  and  being 
contented  with  your  situation.  I  love  to  see  rich  folks  doing  well,  for 
they  help  out  the  country  and  build  railroads,  and  factories,  and  car 
shops,  and  open  up  the  iron  mines,  and  I  know  that  if  everybody  was 
as  poor  as  I  am  the  country  wouldent  prosper,  and  it  looks  like  every- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  101 

tiling  Avas  adopted,  and  we  need  rich  folks  to  plan  and  poor  folks  to 
work,  and  they  couldent  get  along  without  us  any  more  thai?  we  coylc 
get  along  without  them.  I  don't  want  their  fine  clothes,  nor  their  fine 
house,  nor  their  carriage  and  horses,  and  they  don't  want  my  little  old 
mule,  nor  my  bobtail  coat,  and  so  its  all  right  all  round,  and  every- 
thing is  adopted.  It  don't  t^ke  me  but  a  minute  and  a  half  to  git 
ready  to  go  to  meetin',  for  all  I've  got  to  do  is  to  put  on  my  coat  and 
comb  the  cuckleburs  outen  my  hair  and  wash  my  face  and  git  a  couple 
of  chaws  of  tobacco  and  take  my  foot  in  my  hand  and  go.  I  can 
squat  down  at  the  door  when  I  git  there,  and  hear  all  the  preachers 
has  to  say,  and  thank  the  Lord  for  his  goodness,  and  that  is  worship 
enough  for  a  poor  man,  I  reckon,  and  its  all  adopted.  When  I  see 
fine  things  and  fine  peojDle  I'm  always  thankful  for  some  favors  that 
are  pow'ful  chea^)  considering  that  money  runs  the  world,  for  we  have 
got  good  health  and  good  appetites  at  my  house  and  can  sleep  well  on 
a  hard  bed,  and  a  drink  of  spring  water  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
to  a  hungry  man.  We  haint  got  no  dishpepshy  nor  heart  burn,  and 
nobody  haint  suing  me  for  my  land  for  I  haint  got  any,  and  my  wife 
can  make  as  good  corn  bread  as  anybody,  and  our  tables  is  a  good  kind 
aud  the  old  cow  lets  down  her  milk  about  right  and  can  live  and  do 
well  without  being  curried  and  fed  up  like  a  Jersey,  and  she  under- 
stands my  children  and  they  understand  her  and  so  it  looks  like  every- 
thing is  adopted.  I  was  a  thinking  the  other  day  how  much  service 
this  old  coat  Mrs.  Arp  give  me  has  done,  for  if  it  had  been  a  new  one 
I  would  have  been  afeerd  of  it,  but  I've  wore  it  now  for  six  months, 
and  its  good  yet,  and  the  children  have  wore  the  old  clothes  she  give 
them,  and  they  are  all  adopted,  and  now,  major,  if  you  have  got  a 
chaw  or  two  of  that  good  tobacco  you  always  have  I  want  a  bite  or 
two,  for  that  is  one  thing  that  I  like  better  than  poor  folks'  tobaccer. 
Its  one  thing  that  I  think  is  a  leetel  better  adopted  than  anything  else. 
At  least  I  like  it  better." 

Cobe  got  his  tobacco  and  flanked  his  little  mule  with  his  heelless 
shoes  and  galloped  away  in  peace.  If  he  is  not  adapted,  I  know  he 
feels  adopted.  Cobe  has  peculiar  ideas  and  a  peculiar  language.  He 
always  says  that  thunder  killed  a  man,  and  when  I  told  him  that  it 
was  lightning  he  said,  "  Well,  I  know  they  say  it  is  lightning,  but  I've 
alwavs  noticed  that  when  it  strikes  a  tree  or  a  man  or  a  mule  the  thun- 


102  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

der  and  the  lightning  comes  all  in  a  bunch,  and  you  can't  tell  tother 
'ii-om  T^hich."  "But',  Cobe,"  says  I,  "when  a  gun  shoots,  the  noise 
don't  hurt  anything ;  it  is  the  shot."  "  Just  so,"  says  he,  "  but  there 
is  no  shot  about  this  thunder  business." 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  103 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


The  Ups  and  Downs  of  Farming. 

I  never  could  write  like  a  school- master,  and  now  my  fingers  are 
all  in  a  twist  and  I  am  as  nervous  as  a  woman  with  the  neuralgia. 
Me  and  my  hopeful  boy  set  out  yesterday  morning  to  cut  an  acre  of 
second-crop  clover,  for  these  lazy  niggers  round  here  wanted  a  dollar 
a  day  and  board,  and  I  wouldn't  give  it,  and  so  me  and  him  under- 
took the  job  for  our  vittles  alone,  and  he  had  a  good  mowing-])lade 
and  I  rigged  up  an  old  scythe  that  belonged  to  a  wheat-cradle,  and  it 
was  about  six  feet  long  aud  took  a  sweep  accordin',  and  the  clover  was 
rank  and  mixed  up  with  morning  glories,  and  for  the  first  ten  minutes 
it  looked  like  we  would  just  walk  through  it  like  one  of  McCormick's 
reapers;  but  you  see,  that  kind  of  work  brought  into  play  a  new  set  of 
nerves  and  muscles  that  hadent  been  used  in  a  long  time,  for  mowin' 
clover  with  a  long  blade  is  an  irregular,  side-wipin'  business  that 
swings  a  man  in  all  sorts  of  horrizontal  attitudes,  for  sometimes  he 
don't  put  on  enough  power  for  the  reach,  of  his  blade,  and  then  again 
he  puts  on  a  little  too  much  and  it  comes  round  with  a  jerk  that  twists 
him  up  like  a  corkscrew,  and  so  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  blowin' 
worse  than  a  tired  steer  and  my  shirt  stuck  to  me  and  my  heart  was 
beating  like  a  mufiled  drum,  and  I  rather  look  back  at  what  I  had  cut 
than  ahead  of  me  what  I  hadn't.  But  I  was  too  proud  to  surrender, 
for,  though  I  say  it  myself,  there's  grit  in  me,  and  ever  aud  anon  it 
shows  itself,  under  peculiar  circumstances.  I  heaved  ahead  of  my  boy 
with  my  long-sweepin'  simiter,  that  give  me  time  to  stop  and  git  my 
wind  and  wait  for  my  palpitatin'  bosom  to  quit  thumpin',  and  then  I 
would  rally  my  wastin'  forces  and  go  it  again  until  I  couldent  go  it 
any  longer.  My  boy  was  as  willing  to  quit  as  I  was,  for  the  sun  was 
hot  and  the  air  was  close,  and,  I  say  now  after  due  reflection  it  was 
the  hardest  morning's  work  I  ever  did,  and  I'm  not  for  hire  to  repeat 
it  at  a  dollar  a  day  or  any  other  insignificant  reward,  for  it  has  twisted 
me  out  of  all  decent  shape  and  I  go  about  hump-shouldered  and  sway- 


104  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

backed  aud  as  sore  all  over  as  if  I  had  been  beat  with  a  thrash-pole. 
I  don't  think  I  would  have  made  such  a  fool  of  myself,  but  you  see 
some  of  my  wife's  female  relations  had  come  a  long  ways  to  see  us 
and  all  the  family  paraded  over  to  the  clover  field  like  a  general  and 
his  staff,  and  as  they  stood  around  I  put  on  as  much  style  as  possible 
in  swingin'  my  blade  and  could  hear  'em  admiring  us  how  gracefully 
and  easily  we  handled  the  iustrifments,  when  the  truth  was  we  had 
mighty  nigh  mowed  ourselves  to  death  aud  saved  the  king  of  terrors 
the  job. 

What  a  power  of  influence  these  female  smiles  do  have  upon  us. 
What  undertaking  is  there  that  we  will  not  undertake  if  they  will 
stand  by  and  look  on  and  encourage.  Why  sir,  I  have  thought  in 
moments  of  enthusiasm  that  if  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  was  to  unfold  her 
angelic  wings  and  soar  away  to  Chimborazoes  top,  and  call  me  with  a 
heavenly  smile,  I'd  go  too  if  I  could.  I  wish  they  were  all  rich,  for 
these  two  traits  about  woman  have  always  struck  me.  They  can  live 
on  less  when  they  are  obliged  to,  and  make  a  little  go  a  heap  further 
than  the  men,  but  when  money  is  handy  they  can  spend  more  and 
take  more  satisfaction  in  gettin'  rid  of  it  than  anybody. 

I  read  the  other  day  in  a  farming  paper  that  moles  dident  do  any 
harm,  but  on  the  contrary  they  did  good  in  eating  up  bugs  and  worms; 
well,  I  caught  one  on  the  first  day  of  this  month,  a  nice,  slick,  fat 
fellow;  and  as  my  folks  had  been  making  an  April  fool  of  me  all  day, 
I  just  emptied  the  sugar  bowl  aud  shut  the  sweet  little  innocent  up  in 
there.  Mrs.  Arp  is  a  dignified  woman,  especially  at  the  table.  She 
takes  her  seat  the  last  of  all  and  after  grace  she  arranges  the  cups  in 
the  saucers,  and  the  next  thing  is  to  put  in  the  sugar  and  cream  and 
give  it  a  little  stir  with  a  spoon.  Mrs.  Arp  is  afraid  of  rats,  and  so 
when  she  stretched  forth  her  sweet  little  hand  and  removed  the  sugar 
dish  top  the  varmint  rose  suddenly  to  a  perpendicular  position,  and 
stuck  his  red  snout  just  above  the  top  edge.  She  saw  him — I  know  she 
did  from  the  way  she  done.  Anticipating  a  catastrophy,  I  had  slipped 
az'ound  to  the  rear  and  reached  her  just  in  time  to  receive  her  in  my  affec- 
tionate arms  as  she  was  reclining  backward  in  a  riotous  and  tumul- 
tuous manner.  Shutting  up  the  animal  again,  I  departed  those  coasts, 
and  it  took  me  two  days  to  mole-ify  her  lacerated  feelings  and  make 
things  calm  and  serene.  The  next  morning  I  turned  him  loose  in  the 
garden,  and  before  night  he  had  run  his  under-ground  railroad  right 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  105 

under  a  row  of  peas  that  was  about  ten  inches  high,  and  cut  the  peas 
from  the  seed,  and  the  tops  was  lying  flat  and  wilted,  like  a  cabbage 
plant  when  the  cut  worms  find  it. 

Farmin'  is  a  good  deal  like  fishin'.  Every  time  you  start  out  you 
can  just  see  yourself  catchin'  'em ;  but  after  tryin'  every  hole  in  the 
creek  you  go  home  sorrowfully,  with  a  fisherman's  luck.  But  we 
are  not  complainin'  by  no  means,  for  Ave've  got  wheat  enuf  for  biskit 
every  day  and  light-bread  on  Sunday,  and  a  few  bushels  to  spare  for 
tliem  angels  that's  to  cum  along  unawares  sum  of  these  days.  We 
finished  cuttin'  the  oat  crop  this  mornin',  and  what  with  them  and  the 
clover  already  housed,  the  cattle  are  safe  for  another  year.  I  imagine 
they  look  sassy  and  thankful;  but  as  for  me,  I  am  a  used  up  indi- 
vidual. Duriu'  harvest  I  have  had  to  be  a  binder,  and  if  you  don't 
know  what  that  is,  ask  Harris.  The  ends  of  these  fingers  which  are 
now  inscribin'  this  epistle  are  in  a  bad  fix.  Skarified  and  stuck  up 
with  bull  nettles  and  briars,  they  are  as  sore  as  a  school-boy's  bile. 
There  was  sum  variation  to  my  business,  such  as  catchin'  young  ral> 
bits,  and  findin'  partridge  nests,  and  pickin'  dewberries ;  but  the  romance 
wore  oflP  the  first  day,  and  by  the  end  of  the  next  my  wife  says  I  was 
as  humble  a  man  as  any  woman  could  desire.  Its  a  mighty  purty 
thing  to  write  about  and  make  up  oads  and  pomes.  The  golden  grain, 
tlie  manly  reapers,  the  strutten'  sheaves,  the  song  of  the  harvesters, 
and  purty  Miss  Ruth  coquettin'  around  the  fields  of  old  man  Boaz, 
and  "how  jokin'  did  they  drive  their  team  afield,"  is  all  so  sweet  and 
nice  to  a  man  up  a  tree  with  an  umbrel,  but  if  them  poets  had  to  tie 
wheat  half  a  day  in  a  June  sun,  their  sentimentality  would  henceforth 
seek  another  subjek.  I  tried  swingin'  the  cradle  awhile,  but  somehow 
or  somehow  else,  I  couldn't  exactly  get  the  lick.  It  wasent  the  kind 
of  a  cradle  I've  been  used  to,  and  I  am  too  old  a  dog  to  learn  new  tricks 
now. 

The  branches  are  getting  low.  The  corn  is  curling  in  the  blades. 
The  mills  grind  a  little  in  the  morning  and  then  wait  for  the  pond  to 
fill.  The  locust  is  singin'  a  parchiu'  tune.  Summer  flies  keeps  the 
cows'  tails  busy,  and  all  nature  gives  sign  of  a  comin'  drouth.  I  don't 
like  this,  but  am  tryin'  to  be  resigned.  Before  I  turned  farmer  such 
weather  dident  concern  me  much  if  I  could  find  a  cool  retreat,  but 
now  I  realize  how  dependent  is  mankind  upon  the  farm,  and  the  farmer 
upon  Providence.     The  truth  is,  its  a  precarious  business  all  around. 


106  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

and  I  sometimes  catch  myself  a  wishin'  I  was  rich  or  had  a  sorter  side- 
show to  my  circus. 

A  sorry  farmer  on  a  sorry  farm  is  a  sorry  spectacle.  A  good  farmer 
on  poor  land  and  a  poor  farmer  on  good  land  are  purty  well  balanced, 
and  can  scratch  along  if  the  seasons  hit;  but  I  reckon  a  smart  and 
diligent  man  with  good  land  to  back  him  is  about  as  secure  against  the 
shiftin'  perils  of  this  life  as  anybody  can  be;  and  then  if  a  man  could 
have  besides  a  few  thousand  dollars  invested  in  stocks  and  draw  the 
intrust  twice  a  year  he  ought  to  be  as  happy  as  subloonary  things  can 
make  him.  Then,  you  see,  he  could  send  off  his  children  to  school,  and 
visit  his  kin,  and  keep  a  cook  and  a  top  buggy,  and  lay  in  some  chaney 
ware  and  a  carpet  for  the  old  'oman,  and  new  bonnets  and  red  ear-rings 
for  the  girls,  and  have  a  little  missionary  money  left.  If  the  drouth 
or  the  army  worm  or  the  caterpillar  comes  along  he  would  have  some- 
thing to  fall  back  on  and  make  him  always  feel  calm  and  sereen.  I 
think  I  would  like  that — wouldent  you? — and  I  reckon  there  ain't  no 
harm  in  prayin'  for  it  as  Agur  did  when  he  said,  "give  me  neither 
poverty  or  riches."  Most  every  aspirin'  man  I  know  of  in  the  towns 
and  cities  is  lookin'  forward  to  this  blessed  state.  They  work  and  toil 
and  twist,  and  dodge  in  and  dodge  out,  and  do  a  thousand  little  things 
they  are  sorter  ashamed  of,  with  a  view  at  the  last  of  settling  down  on 
some  good  farm  with  creeks  and  springs  and  meadows  and  mills  and 
fine  cattle,  and  windin'  up  a  perplexin'  life  in  peace  with  mankind 
and  communion  with  honest  nature.  No  ambitious  man  becomes  lost 
to  such  pleasant  hopes  as  these,  and  the  more  trouble  he  has  the  more 
he  longs  for  it,  for  its  about  the  fittenest  way  I  know  of  to  get  time  to 
repent  and  make  preparation  for  shuffling  off  this  mortal  coil.  But 
to  all  such  the  outside  investment  is  highly  necessary.  Even  Beecher 
could  not  get  along  without  it — for  there  are  a  thousand  little  leaks  in 
farmin'  that  a  man  without  experience  can't  stop,  and  without  capital 
can't  remedy.  Why,  only  this  mornin'  one  of  my  boys  was  driving 
across  a  bridge  and  the  mule  Joe  got  skeered  at  his  shadder  and  shoved 
Tom  over  on  the  hand  rail  and  it  broke,  and  he  fell  in  the  creek  and 
dragged  Joe  with  him,  and  the  wagon,  too,  and  broke  the  tongue  all 
to  pieces,  and  the  houns  and  the  haims  and  the  harness  and  the  driver, 
and  both  the  mules  set  into  kickin'  with  the  front  end  of  the  waggon 
on  top  of  'em,  and  the  hind  end  up  on  the  bridge,  and  you  could  have 
heard  the  racket  for  two  miles  without  a  telefone,  and  the  girls  ran 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  107 

and  screamed,  and  Mrs.  Arp  liked  to  have  fainted  every  step  of  the 
way,  for  she  said  she  knew  Paul  was  killed  as  he  fell,  and  kicked  to 
death  by  the  mules  and  drowned  afterwards,  and  it  took  two  hours  to 
clear  the  wreck  and  restore  the  wounded  and  passify  the  women  and 
get  everything  once  more  calm  and  screen.  Now,  you  see,  there's 
some  unforseen  damages  to  pay  and  nobody  to  pay  'em,  and  all  we 
can  do  is  to  charge  it  up  to  the  mule.  I  do  think  that  we  farmers 
ought  to  have  some  protection  agin  the  like  of  this,  and  I  want  to 
introduce  a  bill  the  next  session,  for  they've  been  protecting  manu- 
factures for  75  years  and  neglectin'  agriculture,  which  is  the  very 
subsill  of  a  nation's  prosperity.  I  wonder  if  our  law-makers  who  can 
save  a  State  couldn't  fix  up  an  arrangement  that  would  give  everybody 
a  good  price  for  what  they  had  to  sail,  and  put  everything  down  low 
that  we  had  to  buy,  and  then  abolish  taxes  and  work  the  roads  with 
the  chain-gang,  and  let  the  bell-punch  run  the  government.  Such  a 
aw  would  give  universal  satisfaction  and  immortalize  its  author. 


108  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


The  Family  Preparing  to  Receive  City  Cousins. 

It's  a  thrillin'  time  when  a  country  family  have  invited  their  city 
cousins  to  visit  'em,  and  are  fixin'  up  to  receive  'em  in  a  hospitable 
manner. 

The  scouring  mon  and  the  floor-cloth  and  an  old  jar  of  lie  soap 
and  a  pan  lull  of  sand  are  not  very  elegant  things  to  handle  but  they 
are  useful  and  can't  be  abolished  with  decency. 

Everything  around  and  about  our  premises  is  mighty  clean  and 
nice  now.  I  wish  it  would  stay  so.  I  don't  care  so  much  about  it 
myself,  but  it  harmonizes  with  Mrs.  Arp  and  the  girls  and  the  Script- 
ures. I'm  afraid  I'm  a  little  heathenish  about  such  things,  for  I  don't 
like  to  live  under  such  constraint — to  have  to  scrape  my  shoes  so  much 
and  shut  the  doors  and  hang  up  my  hat  and  empty  the  wash-bowl.  I 
don't  like  to  see  the  ashes  taken  up  quite  so  clean  and  so  often  and  so 
much  sweeping  and  scrubbing.  I  duu't  think  the  broom  ought  to  be 
set  in  the  corner  upside  down  nor  the  clean  towel  hid  in  the  wash- 
stand  where  me  and  the  little  boys  can't  find  it.  I  think  I  would  like 
a  room  somewhere  close  about  where  me  and  the  children  could  do  as 
we  please  and  enjoy  a  little  dirt  on  the  floor  and  throw  the  saw  and 
the  hammer  and  a  few  nails  around  and  kick  off  our  muddy  shoes  and 
mould  bullets  and  pop  corn  and  play  horse  and  marbles  and  tumble 
up  the  bed  and  do  as  we  please  and  clean  up  things  about  once  a 
month.  But  there's  no  room  to  spare  and  so  I  have  to  endeavor  to 
live  like  a  gentleman  whether  I  want  to  or  not.  I've  got  an  idea  that 
a  little  clean  dirt  is  healthy.  I'm  afraid  that  little  tender  children  are 
washed  and  bathed  too  much.  They  get  puny  and  pale,  and  delicate. 
Poor  little  things.  It's  very  disagreeable  to  'em.  I  never  saw  one 
that  liked  it,  and  that's  pretty  good  evidence  it's  not  accordiu'  to 
nature.  Once  a  week  is  very  reasonable,  but  this  every  night's  busi- 
ness is  a  sin.  They  say  it  keeps  the  pores  open,  but  maybe  they 
oughtent  to  be  kept  open  all  the  time.     The  surgeons  say  that  a  hand- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  109 

ful  of  fresh  earth  bouud  on  a  flesh  woimd  or  a  bruise  will  cure  it  up, 
and  I've  found  out  that  the  best  cure  for  scratches  in  horses'  feet  is 
walking  in  fresh  plowed  ground,  I  never  saw  a  healthy  child  that 
didn't  love  to  play  in  the  dirt,  and  the  sand,  and  make  frog  houses 
and  nuid  pies.  But  still  I  don't  go  to  extremes.  I  don't  want  'em  to 
get  so  dirty  their  skin  hasn't  got  any  pores  at  all  and  their  little  ears 
would  sprout  turnip  seed.  Everything  must  be  done  in  reason  and  in 
season.  There's  some  things  I  am  mighty  particular  about — such  as 
clean  dishes  and  butter  and  milk  and  sausage-meat.  I  saw  a  woman 
milking  the  other  day,  and  she  pulled  the  calf  away  by  the  calf's  tail 
and  then  wijied  off  the  cow's  tits  with  the  cow's  tail  and  went  to  milk- 
ing.    I  thought  there  was  too  little  water  and  too  much  tail  in  that. 

But  to  return  to  the  preparations  for  the  reception.  The  girls  took 
matters  in  charge,  and  for  several  days  the  exciting  episode  went  on. 
It  was  like  clearing  the  deck  of  a  man  of  war  for  a  fight.  The  house 
has  been  scoured  and  scrubbed  and  sand-papered.  Everything  in  it 
has  been  taken  down  and  put  up  again,  and  moved  to  a  new  place, 
and  I  can't  find  anything  now  when  I  want  it.  The  old  faded  car- 
pets have  been  taken  up  and  beaten,  and  patched  all  over,  and  cur- 
tailed and  put  down  again.  They  get  smaller  and  smaller,  which 
they  say  is  a  good  way  to  wear  'em  out  without  taking  cold.  The  fur- 
niture has  been  freshly  varnished  with  kerosene  oil ;  the  window  glass 
washed  on  both  sides,  and  the  knives  and  forks,  water  buckets,  wash 
pans,  and  shovel  and  tongs  brightened  up.  The  hearths  have  been 
painted  a  Spanish  brown,  the  soiled  plastering  whitewashed,  the  fam- 
ily portraits  dusted,  and  the  pewter  teapot  and  plated  castors  and 
spoons  and  napkin  rings  polished  as  fine  as  a  jewelry  store. 

I  surveyed  the  operations  from  day  to  day  with  affectionate  interest, 
for  it  does  me  good  to  see  young  people  work  diligently  in  a  meritori- 
ous cause;  nevertheless  my  routine  of  daily  life  appears  to  be  some- 
what demoralized.  On  the  first  day  our  humble  dinner  was  dispensed 
with  and  me  and  the  boys  invited  to  lunch  on  bread  and  sorghum  at  a 
side  table.  The  next  day  we  were  allowed  to  lunch  in  the  back 
piazzer,  for  fear  we  would  mess  up  the  dining  room,  and  the  next  we 
were  confined  to  the  water-shed  to  keep  us  from  messing  up  the  piazzer 
and  after  that  I  meekly  prepared  myself  to  be  shoved  out  doors  on  a 
plank,  but  we  wasn't.  Mrs.  Arp  lectures  me  every  day  on  manners 
and  she  don't  confine  her  lectures  to  my  private  ear.     The  last  time 


110  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE. 

we  had  turkey  we  had  company,  and  when  I  asked  a  lady  if  she 
would  have  some  of  this  fowl,  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  she  looked  at  me 
indignantly,  and  said:  "William,  that  is  not  fowl — it  is  turkey." 
When  I  asked  the  lady  if  she  would  have  some  of  the  stuffing,  Mrs. 
Arp,  my  wife,  observed  sarcastically,  "  Of  course  she  will  have  some 
of  the  'dressing.'"  You  see,  I  thought  that  dressing  was  generally 
worn  outside,  but  it  seems  that  a  turkey  is  not  dressed  until  it  is 
undressed.  Well,  she  overlooked  me  when  the  pie  was  sent  around ; 
she  overlooks  me  a  great  deal,  and  when  I  ventured  to  remind  her 
that  I  would  take  some  of  the  dessert,  she  said  she  didn't  have  any 
Sahara,  but  maybe  a  desert  of  mince  pie  would  do  just  as  well.  We 
took  tea  at  a  nabor's  once  and  when  the  servant  handed  me  a  little 
glass  dish  of  peaches  in  a  waiter,  I  thought  the  whole  concern  was  for 
me  and  set  it  dow^n  by  my  plate.  But  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  she 
watches  me  pretty  close  and  whispered  to  me  to  take  some  of  the  pre- 
serves if  I  wanted  any,  as  the  servant  was  waiting  for  the  dish.  So 
after  awhile  I  was  handed  a  saucer  of  canned  peaches,  and  when  I 
took  one  out  and  put  it  on  my  plate,  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  kindly 
requested  me  to  eat  out  of  the  saucer.  She  has  never  got  reconciled 
to  the  way  I  imbibe  my  coffee,  for  you  see  I  was  raised  to  pour  it  out 
in  the  saucer,  and  when  I  try  to  take  it  from  the  cup  it  burns  me  so  I 
have  to  give  it  up.  Some  folks  will  endure  a  heap  for  style,  but  I 
am  too  old  to  begin  it  now.  I  think  I  do  pretty  well  considering  all 
things  and  deserve  credit. 

Delicate  hmts  have  been  given  that  it  ain't  polite  to  set  down  to 
dinner  with  one's  coat  off,  or  eat  hominy  with  a  knife,  or  smoke  in  the 
parlor.  The  wash  bowl  has  been  turned  upside  down  to  keep  us  from 
using  it.  With  this  side  up  it  holds  about  a  pint  and  a  half,  and  as  I 
was  washing  my  face  with  the  tips  of  my  fingers  they  surveyed 
me  with  a  look  of  unutterable  despair.  When  I  raise  my  workin' 
boots  on  the  banister  rail  for  an  evening  rest  they  wipe  it  off  with  a 
wet  rag  as  soon  as  I  leave.  I  mustn't  step  on  the  i^urty  red  hearth  to 
make  a  fire  or  put  a  back  log  on  that  weighs  fifty  pounds.  They've 
put  pillows  on  my  bed  about  half  as  big  as  a  bale  of  cotton  and 
fringed  all  round  like  a  petticoat.  They  are  to  stay  on  in  day  time 
and  be  taken  off  at  night.  When  I'm  tired  and  feel  the  need  of  a 
midday  nap  that  bed  was  a  comfort,  but  the  best  I  can  do  now  is  to 
sit  up  in  a  chair  and  nod.     The  dogs  don't  understand  the  new  system 


The  Farm  and  The  FrKE^iDE,  111 

at  all.  Old  Bows  has  beeu  coming  iu  the  house  to  the  fire  or  lyiug  in 
the  piazza  for  fourteen  years,  and  it  does  seem  impossible  to  break 
him  of  it  iu  a  sudden  though  dogmatic  manner.  Broom-handles  and 
fishing-poles  move  'em  out  at  one  door,  but  they  slip  in  at  another. 

I  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  vamoose  the  ranch  and  take 
the  dogs  and  cats  and  children  with  me.  "NVe  can  sleep  on  the  hay  in 
the  loft  aud  eat  peas  and  drink  water  and  swell  to  keep  from  starvin'. 
Maybe  jNIrs.  Arp  aud  the  girls  will  take  pity  on  us  then  and  let  us 
come  back  to  the  old  regulations.  When  the  cousins  come  all  will  be 
well.     I  wish  they  were  here  now. 


112  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


Bad  Luck  ix  the  Family. 

It's  bad  luck  now  at  our  house.  One  of  those  peculiar  spells  -when 
everything  goes  wrong  and  nobody  to  blame  for  it.  Saw  the  new 
moon  through  a  brush,  I  reckon.  On  Monday  two  of  my  j)igs,  just 
littered,  got  drowned  in  the  branch;  Tuesday  my  ahoata  got  into 
my  potato  patch;  Wednesday  a  nigger  was  found  struttin'  around 
town  with  my  equestrian  walking  cane,  which  was  a  present,  and 
which  I  dident  know  was  lost,  and  yesterday  mornin',  while  Mrs.  Arp 
was  away,  I  thought  it  was  a  good  time  to  cut  little  Jessie's  haii'  off, 
for  it  was  continually  gittin'  down  over  her  eyes  like  any  other  country 
gal's,  and  so  I  shingled  it  all  over  after  a  fashion  of  my  own,  and 
when  her  mother  came  home  I  dident  know  at  first  but  what  she  had 
took  the  highsterics,  but  I  soon  found  out  better  without  much  assist- 
ance, if  any,  and  all  that  day  I  had  right  smart  business  away  from 
the  house.  I  gently  suggested  that  it  was  all  owin'  to  the  Avay  she 
looked  at  the  moon,  but  that  dident  screen  anything,  for  you  see  she 
was  countin'  on  showin'  off  the  child  at  the  fair,  and  now  she  can't. 
I  am  hopeful,  however,  that  when  the  ambrosial  locks  grow  out  again 
our  conjugal  life  will  once  more  be  calm  and  screen.  Husbands ! 
fathers !  martyrs  to  wedded  bliss,  don't  cut  your  little  girl's  hair  ofl 
without  permission — don't. 

It  looks  like  my  bad  luck  all  comes  in  a  bunch.  You  see,  I  had 
dug  a  flower  pit  and  rigged  it  up  with  shelves  and  put  glass  windows 
in  the  top  of  it,  and  Mrs.  Arp  and  the  girls  had  managed  one  way  and 
another  to  fiU  it  with  geraniums  and  aU  sorts  of  pretty  things,  and 
some  of  them  were  in  bloom  and  everything  growing  so  nice  and 
smelt  so  sweet  and  the  women  folks  were  proud  of  'em  and  nursed 
them  and  watered  them  and  showed  them  to  everybody ;  but  yester- 
day they  discovered  some  little  varmints,  about  as  big  as  a  gnat,  were 
gathering  on  the  leaves  and  doing  damage,  and  when  they  told  me 
about  it,  I  didn't  say  nothing,  but  I  thought  I  knew  what  would  kill 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  113 

'em,  for  I  had  tried  it  in  the  hen  house,  aud  it  worked  like  a  charm. 
So  I  got  some  sulphur  and  put  it  in  an  old  pan  and  set  it  afire  and 
shut  down  the  sash.  Well,  I  have  killed  all  the  bugs,  that's  a  fact, 
and  the  misery  of  it  is  I  have  killed  most  everything  else.  I'm  not 
going  to  enlarge  upon  the  melancholly  consequences,  but  will  just  say 
I  wish  my  folks  would  put  on  mourning  and  be  done  with  it.  I  can't 
stand  this  sort  of  resigned  sadness  that's  hovering  over  us  much 
longer.  If  they  would  tear  around  and  cut  up  awhile  and  quit,  I 
wouldent  mind  it,  but  this  drooping  way  they've  got  of  going  to  the 
flower-pit  like  it  was  a  graveyard  is  just  a-killen  me.  They  don't  say 
nothing  and  I  don't  say  nothing,  so  I  have  been  reading  history  for 
consolation. 

Old  Bows  is  dead,  my  loving  and  trusty  friend,  the  defender  of  my 
children,  the  protector  of  my  household  in  the  dark  and  silent  watches 
of  the  night.  For  thirteen  years  he  has  been  both  fond  and  faithful, 
and  now  we  feel  like  one  of  the  family  is  dead.  Bows  was  the  best 
judge  of  human  nature  I  ever  saw.  He  knew  an  honest  man  and  a 
gentleman  by  instinct.  He  never  frightened  a  woman  or  a  child — he 
never  Avent  tearing  down  the  front  walk  after  anybody  but  the  very 
looks  of  him  would  mighty  nigh  skeer  a  nigger  to  death.  When  they 
had  to  come  to  our  bouse  they  begun  to  holler  "hello"  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  off.  Bows  loved  to  skeer  'em,  he  did.  He  had  character  and 
emotions.  Having  no  tail  to  wag  (for  he  was  not  cur-tailed)  he  did  the 
best  that  he  could  and  wagged  where  it  ought  to  be.  Bows  was  a  dark 
brindle.  He  was  a  dog  of  ancestors.  His  father  was  named  Shy- 
lock,  and  his  grand-father's  name  was  Sheriff.  They  were  all  hon- 
orable dogs.  He  was  not  quarrelsome  or  fussy.  I  never  knew  him 
to  run  up  and  down  a  nabors  pailings  after  the  dog  on  the  other  side. 
He  was  above  it — but  he  never  dodged  a  responsibility.  He  has  come 
in  violent  personal  contact  with  other  dogs  a  thousand  times,  more  or 
less,  and  was  never  the  bottom  dog  in  the  fight.  And  then  what  an 
honest  voice  he  had.  His  bark  was  not  on  the  C,  but  it  was  a  deep, 
short  basso  profundo.  We  have  buried  him  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
where  he  used  to  sit  and  watch  for  tramps  and  stragglers.  Slowly  and 
sadly  we  laid  him  down.  Talk  about  your  sheep — I  wouldn't  have 
given  him  for  a  whole  flock.  Sheep  are  to  eat  and  wear,  but  Bows 
was  a  friend.  It's  like  comparing  appetite  with  emotion — the  animal 
with  the  spiritual.     But  I  am  done  now.     Let  Harris  press  on  his  dog 


114  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

law.  I've  got  nothin'  agin  sheep — iu  fact,  I  like  'em.  Ever 
since  Mary  liad  a  little  lamb  I've  thought  kindly  of  sheep,  and  I  am 
perfectly  willin'  to  a  law  that  will  exterminate  all  houns  and  suck-egg 
pups  and  yaller  doggs  and  bench-leg  fices.  They  are  a  reflection  on 
Bowses  memory. 

Yesterday  morning  about  the  broke  of  day  a  big  clap  of  thunder 
come  along  and  shook  a  month's  rain  out  of  the  clouds  in  half  an 
hour.  My  old  friend  Peckerwood  says  he's  lived  here  35  years  and 
never  seed  the  like  before.  It  dident  rain  nor  pour,  but  jest  come 
down  in  horrizontal  sheets,  and  the  little  branches  turned  into  creeks, 
and  the  creeks  into  rivers  and  they  swelled  out  of  their  channels  and 
all  over  the  bottom  land,  and  tore  down  fences  and  bridges  and 
water-gates  and  carried  off  rails  and  planks  and  watermelons  and 
punkins,  and  the  low  ground  corn  ain't  nigh  as  high  as  it  was,  and 
there's  a  dozen  places  in  the  farm  where  my  nabors'  hogs  can  walk 
into  my  fields  and  help  themselves  if  they  want  to,  and  they 
always  want  to,  you  know,  for  I  never  saw  a  gate  open  or  the 
bars  down  that  there  wasent  an  educated  hog  in  sight  some- 
where. I  reckon  a  hundred  people  have  told  me  I  had  the 
well-waterdest  farm  in  the  county,  and  now  I  believe  it;  but 
if  you  know  of  a  man  who  has  got  one  that  ain't  quite  so  well- 
watered,  and  is  a  mile  or  two  high,  and  not  subject  to  the  avalanch, 
and  I  keep  in  my  present  humor,  please  send  him  along  and  I'll 
swap. 

Everywhere  that  a  fence  crossed  a  slew  or  a  branch  it's  washed  away 
for  a  dozen  panels,  and  the  big  long  logs  that  swung  the  water  gates 
are  gone,  and  the  plank  fences  on  both  sides  of  the  big  road  are  gone, 
and  now  it  takes  all  the  hands  and  the  dogs  to  keep  the  nabors'  hogs 
back  while  we  are  repairiu'  damages,  and  reminds  me  of  the  time  we 
used  to  guard  the  road  to  keep  the  small-pox  from  comin'  to  town. 

The  meandering  swine  whose  fourfathers  ran  down  into  the  sea, 
have  been  perusin'  the  pasture  and  now  its  open  to  the  tater  patch, 
and  so  Ave've  had  to  pen  up  everything  in  the  barn-yard  together,  and 
the  old  sow  has  been  samplin'  the  young  chickens  and  the  Governor 
(that's  our  man  cow)  tried  to  horn  General  Gordon,  the  finest  colt 
perhaps  you  ever  laid  your  eyes  on,  and  this  morning  as  I  was  a 
movin'  about  with  alacrity,  Mrs.  Arp  told  me  the  flour  was  out  and"  I 
told  her  to  run  us  on  shorts,  and  she  said  the  shorts  was  out,  and  I 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireslde.  115 

hollered  back  to  riiu  us  on  meal,  and  she  said  the  meal  was  out,  and 
then  I  surrendered,  and  had  some  wheat  and  corn  sent  to  the  mill, 
and  in  about  an  hour  Ralph  come  back  and  said  one  mill  dam  had 
washed  away  and  the  other  mill  had  up  the  rocks  a  peckin'  of  'em,  and 
the  creek  was  still  a  risiu'  and  he  couldn't  cross  any  more,  and  I  sent 
him  to  one  nabor  to  borrow  and  they  had  locked  up  and  gone  a 
visitin',  and  another  nabor  didn't  have  but  a  handful  in  the  house, 
and  so  here  we  are  jest  a  perishin'  to  death  in  the  name  of  the  state, 
and  if  you  and  your  folks  have  got  any  bowels  now  is  the  time  for  you 
to  extend  to  me  and  my  folks  your  far  reachin'  sympathies — ain't  it? 

And  Mrs.  Arp  thought  it  a  good  day  to  clean  up  the  kitchen  and 
scour  up  the  pans  and  cook-vessels,  and  the  girls  said  shorely  nobody 
would  come  foolin'  around  in  such  wether,  and  they  went  to  moppin' 
and  sloppin'  over  the  house,  and  shore  enuf  about  four  o'clock  this 
eveniu'  p.  m.,  in  the  afternoon  a  couple  of  nice  young  gentlemen 
swum  their  horses  all  the  way  from  town  to  get  to  see  'em,  and  there 
was  no  darkey  to  open  the  door  and  my  black-eyed  Pocahontas  had  it 
to  do,  and  she  got  behind  it  and  hid  and  ax'd  'em  in,  and  about  sun- 
down I  come  home  and  told  'em  I  was  agoin'  to  put  up  their  nags  and 
they  must  stay  all  night,  which  was  the  boldest  venture  on  the  least 
capital  I  ever  made  in  my  life,  but  they  respectfully  declined,  which 
was  fortunate  for  them,  for  although  bright  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  and 
bang'd  up  hair  may  have  some  effect  on  a  young  man's  heart,  they  are 
mighty  little  comfort  to  his  stomach — aint  they  ? 

And  it  aint  done  freshin'  yet,  for  the  frogs  are  croakin'  and  the  air 
is  full  of  swet  and  the  salt  sticks  together  and  the  cam^ihor  bottle  is 
cloudy,  and  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Arp  is  as  smilin'  as  usual,  and  all  of 
these  signs  hardly  ever  fail  at  once  you  know. 

Such  is  life  and  I  can't  help  it.  The  bad  and  the  good,  the  wet  and 
the  dry,  is  all  mixed  up  together.  I  have  spread  forth  my  trouble 
and  feel  better.  There's  lots  of  folks  in  my  fix,  and  I  want  'em  to 
knov>-  I  sympathize.  I'm  sorry  for  'em,  and  if  they  are  sorry  for  me 
it's  all  right.  As  Cobe  says,  it's  all  right.  We  have  got  a  power  of 
good  things  to  be  thankful  for.  A  little  boy  was  drowned  in  my 
nabor's  mill-pond  yesterday,  but  he  wasn't  mine.  The  doctor  passes 
my  house  most  every  day,  but  he  don't  stop.  There  was  a  barn  full 
of  corn  and  mules  burnt  up  in  the  settlement  last  week,  but  it  wasent 
mine.     The  poor  house  is  just  up  the  road  a  piece,  but  we  don't  board 


116  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

there.  I'm  not  a  candidate  for  any  office.  I've  got  plenty  to  eat 
right  now,  and  Avhen  we  get  tired  of  our  homely  fare  we  can  just  step 
over  to  nabor  Freeman's  and  fare  better.  There's  nothing  like  having 
a  good  nabor  in  eating  distance — for  we  don't  have  to  dress  up  nor  put 
on  any  particular  style  about  it,  but  just  send  up  word  we  are  coming 
up  to  supper  and  it's  all  right.     Folks  can't  do  that  way  in  town. 


The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside.  117 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


The  Struggle  for  Money. 

I  don't  hear  of  many  folks  getting  rich.  I  don't  know  of  but  a  few 
who  are  making  more  than  a  good  fair  living,  and  there's  ten  to  one 
who  are  powerfully  scrouged  to  do  that.  The  majority  of  man- 
kind are  always  on  a  strain.  Most  of  them  work  hard  enough 
but  somehow  or  somehow  other,  they  can't  get  ahead,,  and  a 
good  many  are  in  old  Plunket's  fix  who  said  he  was  even  with  the 
world  for  he  owed  about  as  much  as  he  dident  owe.  Some  folks  are 
just  like  hogs.  They  won't  stay  in  one  place  or  keep  at  one  business 
long  enough  to  make  anything,  but  are  always  a  rooting  and  ranging 
around  for  new  places.  I've  noticed  children  picking  blackberries — 
some  will  stay  at  a  bush  until  they  have  gathered  'em  all  and  others 
will  spend  nearly  all  the  time  in  hunting  for  a  better  place.  You  can 
tell  'em  by  their  buckets  when  they  get  home.  My  good  old  father 
used  to  say  he  never  knew  a  man  to  stick  closely  to  a  business  for  ten 
years  but  what  he  made  money — tnat  is,  excepting  preaching  and  pol- 
itics. The  one  don't  waut  to  make  it  and  the  other  can't  keep  it,  as  a 
general  rule,  for  money  made  easy  goes  easy.  When  a  lawyer  gets 
five  dollars  for  writing  a  deed  he  spends  it  before  night,  but  if  he  had 
to  make  ten  bushels  of  corn  to  get  it  he  would  carry  it  in  his  pocket 
just  as  long  as  he  could.  It's  altogether  another  sort  of  a  V.  But 
it's  all  right,  provided  we  are  happy,  and  I  don't  think  there  is  very 
much  difference  in  this  respect  between  the  poor  and  the  rich.  I  used 
to  be  sorter  curious  of  rich  people,  and  wondered  at  Providence  for 
letting  them  have  so  much  more  than  they  needed,  but  I  ain't  now ; 
I've  got  more  sense,  for  I  perceive  they  are  no  happier  than  I  am,  and 
then,  besides,  when  they  begin  to  get  old  theii'  grip  weakens,  and 
they  build  up  colleges  and  churches,  and  orphans'  homes,  and 
establish  libraries  and  other  institutions.  If  they  don't  do  that,  their 
children  get  it,  and  as  a  general  rule  they  scatter  it  all  before  they  die, 
for  it  comes  easy  and  it  will  go  the  same  way.  So  it's  all  right  in  the 
long  run  and  if  it  aiut  I  can't  help  it,  and  I'm  not  going  to  grieve  over 


118  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

what  I  can't  remedy.  Honest  industry  and  a  contented  disposition  is 
the  best  insurance  company  for  happiness  in  this  world  and  will  make 
a  man  independent  of  fine  houses  and  fine  clothes  and  the  luxuries  of 
life  on  the  one  side  and  court  houses  and  jails  and  pinching  poverty  on 
the  other.  It  seems  to  me  that  somebody  has  said  something  like  this 
before,  but  I'll  say  it  again  anyhow.  There's  one  thing  I  consider 
settled — my  children  will  have  no  chance  to  waste  and  squander  my 
money,  for  there  won't  be  any  left  to  speak  of  and  it  will  be  such  a 
long  division  the  fractions  will  be  too  small  to  fuss  about.  Time  about 
is  fair  play,  and  if  we  take  care  of  them  in  infancy  and  youth  and 
spend  the  last  dollar  we  get  on  'em,  they  must  look  after  us  when  we 
get  old  and  helpless — and  they  will,  I  know.  We've  tried  to  make 
their  young  lives  happy.  I've  mighty  nigh  wore  myself  out  playing 
horse  and  marbles  and  carrying  'em  on  my  back,  and  rolling  'em  in  a 
wheelbarrow,  and  doing  a  thousand  things  to  please  'em,  and  that's 
more  than  a  rich  man  will  do,  who  is  all  absorbed  in  stocks  and  bonds 
and  speculation,  and  goes  home  at  night  with  money  on  the  brain. 
He's  no  father — he  ain't ;  he's  a  machine.  The  average  family  man 
is  hard  run.  There's  nobody  perishing  or  freezing  in  this  sunny  land, 
and  very  few  folks  boarding  at  the  poor  house,  but  still  there  is  a  gen- 
eral struggle  going  on  in  the  town  and  the  country.  Most  everybody 
is  in  debt  more  or  less,  and  what  one  crop  don't  pay  has  to  lap  over  on 
the  next.  The  merchants  say  that  money  is  awful  tight  right  now,  and  I 
reckon  it  is.  I'm  sorry  for  the  merchants,  for  as  a  general  thing  money  is 
their  sole  dependence.  If  he  hasent  got  money  he  is  a  busted  institu- 
tion, and  that  is  where  the  advantage  of  being  a  farmer  comes  in. 
He  can  be  out  of  money  and  still  squeeze  along,  for  he  has  corn  and 
wheat  and  sheep  and  hogs  and  chickens,  and  don't  have  to  wear  store 
clothes  to  any  great  extent,  and  his  children  can  wear  their  old  ones  a 
long  time  and  go  bare  headed  and  bare  footed  when  there's  no  com- 
pany around.  Town  folks  have  to  dress  better  and  dress  oftener, 
Avhether  they  can  pay  for  'em  or  not.  But  it  is  a  hard  time  all  round 
to  make  a  living,  and  I  don't  know  exactly  what  is  the  matter.  The 
average  family  is  not  extravagant.  They  understand  the  situation  at 
home  and  try  to  conform,  but  it  looks  like  they  are  just  obleeged  to  fudge 
a  little  and  go  in  debt,  and  then  the  misery  begins.  When  the  good 
man  gets  his  mail  from  the  post-office,  he  is  most  afraid  to  open  it 
for  fear  of  a  dun.     These  darned  little  just  debts  as  Saul  McCarney 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  119 

used  to  call  'em,  haug  around  hiiu  like  a  shadow.  The  four  D's  are 
mighty  close  kin — debt,  duns,  death  and  the  devil — and  one  is  nearly 
as  welcome  as  the  other.  A  man  who  was  born  rich  and  managed  to 
keep  so  or  a  man  who  was  born  poor  and  has  gotten  rich,  don't  know 
much  about  the  horror  of  debt  and  haseut  got  much  sympathy  for  the 
debtor  class  and  is  very  apt  to  lay  it  all  to  their  imprudence  or  bad 
management,  but  the  fact  is  most  of  our  rich  men  got  a  start  before 
the  war  or  built  up  on  the  ruins  of  it  before  society  with  its  extrava- 
gance got  hold  of  'em.  They  couldent  do  it  now.  I  know  lots  of 
rich  men  who,  if  they  were  to  lose  their  fortunes,  couldent  start  now 
and  make  another.  They  think  they  could,  but  they  couldent;  man- 
kind are  too  smart  and  too  sharp  now  for  an  old-fashioned  man  to 
stand  any  chance.  He  would  get  licked  up  in  his  first  experiment. 
]\Ioney  makes  money  and  money  can  keep  money  after  it  is  made,  but 
there  is  a  slim  chance  now  for  a  young  man  to  make  money  and  save 
it  and  keep  in  gun-shot  of  society.  He  can  bottle  himself  up  and 
remain  a  bachelor  and  turn  his  back  on  society  and  accumulate  a  for- 
tune, but  the  trouble  is  that  most  of  'em  want  to  marry  and  ought  to 
marry,  and  if  he  bottles  himself  up  and  spends  nothing  and  dresses 
common  he  is  not  the  sort  of  man  the  girls  are  waiting  for.  And  so 
if  he  spends  freely  and  rides  around,  he  is  apt  to  get  married,  and 
then  comes  house  rent  and  servant's  hire  and  clothes  according,  and 
he  squeezes  along  and  is  always  on  the  strain.  There  are  mighty  few 
getting  rich  now-a-days,  but  when  a  man  does  get  a  start,  he  can  get 
richer  than  they  used  to.  A  half  a  million  now  is  a'oout  what  fifty 
thousand  dollars  used  to  be.  But  the  average  man  is  not  going  to  get 
rich,  and  I  reckon  it  is  the  common  lot,  and  therefore  it  is  all  right. 
Nobody  ought  to  distress  himself  about  it,  or  hanker  after  money,  but 
somehow  I  can't  help  wishing  that  our  common  people  were  a  little 
better  off. 

Let  us  encourage  the  boys — the  rising  young  men  and  middle  aged 
men.  Let  us  pat  'em  on  the  back  and  point  to  the  flag  and  say, 
"Excelsior."  It  will  help  'em  climb  the  mountain.  Jesso — but  I 
said  awhile  back  that  this  generation  will  not  produce  men  as  grand  as 
our  fathers,  and  it  won't.  There  are  no  young  men  who  give  promise 
of  equaling  Clay  or  Webster  or  Calhoun  or  Crawford  or  Forsyth  or 
Tioup  or  Howell  Cobb  or  Toombs,  in  the  days  of  his  splendor,  or 
Stephens  or  Joseph  Henry  Lumpkin  or  Warner  or  Walter  T.  Colquitt, 


120  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

and  a  score  of  others  I  could  name.  I  am  talking  about  grand  men — 
men  who  stood  away  above  their  fellows  and  adorned  society  like 
mountains  adorn  and  dignify  a  landscape.  Nobody  is  to  blame  about 
it  that  I  know  of,  for  it  comes  according  to  nature's  laws  and  the 
decrees  of  Providence,  and  I  reckon  its  all  right.  Those  grand  men 
of  the  olden  time  have  served  their  day  and  accomplished  their  work. 
They  moulded  manners  and  statesmanship  and  great  principles  and 
patriotism  and  the  masses  looked  up  to  them  and  learned  wisdom.  All 
this  was  in  the  days  of  Southern  aristocracy,  and  these  grand  men  had 
abundant  leisure  and  dident  have  to  be  on  the  wild  hunt  for  money. 
It  was  the  aristocracy  of  dominion,  for  dominion  dignified  a  man  then, 
and  it  does  now  just  as  it  did  in  the  days  of  the  centurion,  who  said: 
"I  say  unto  this  man,  go,  and  he  goeth,  and  to  another  come,  and  he 
Cometh,"  Dominion  over  men  makes  a  man  feel  a  responsibility  that 
nothing  else  does,  and  this  responsibility  enlarges  his  moral  nature  and 
ennobles  him  as  a  gentleman  and  a  philosopher.  It  is  this  feeling 
that  dignifies  judges  and  railroad  presidents,  and  captains  of  ships, 
and  generals  in  armies.     They  can  all  command  men  and  be  obeyed. 

But  the  time  came  in  the  Providence  of  God  for  a  change.  The 
masses  of  the  people  were  under  a  cloud.  They  were  over- 
shadowed, and  the  wreck  of  the  slave  aristocracy,  together  with  the 
results  of  the  war,  made  an  opening  for  them  and  their  children. 
Humbler  men  have  come  to  the  front  and  now  run  the  machine.  The 
masses  are  looming  up.  Overseers  have  got  rich.  Poor  boys,  who 
had  a  hard  time,  are  now  our  merchant  princes.  The  old  lines  of 
social  standing  are  broken  down,  and  one  man  is  good  as  another,  if 
he  succeeds.  Success  is  everything  now,  especially  success  in  making 
money.  Statesmanship  has  gone  down.  Great  learning  is  at  a  dis- 
count, money  rules  the  roost,  and  everybody  knowp  it,  and  everybody 
is  pushing  for  it.  Money  makes  presidents,  and  governors  and  mem- 
bers of  congress.  We  talk  about  a  candidate's  "bar'l"  now  just  as 
we  used  to  talk  about  his  eloquence  or  his  service  to  his  country. 
Everywhere  there  is  a  wild  rush  for  money,  and  it  don't  matter  how 
a  man  gets  it  so  he  gets  it. 

Now,  how  can  this  sort  of  an  age  produce  great  men?  How  can 
the  young  men  escape  the  infection?  Where  is  any  purity  or  honor  in' 
politics  or  in  the  court  house?  When  a  man  has  to  resort  to  deceit  or 
hypocrisy  or  questional)le  means  to  support  his  family  he  loses  his  self- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  121 

respect,  and  wlien  his  self-respect  is  gone,  liis  ability  to  be  a  great  man 
is  gone.  He  can't  do  it.  No  man  is  truly  great  who  is  not  honest  and 
and  sincere  and  a  lover  of  his  fellow-men.  A  lawyer  who  lies  or  resorts 
to  tricks — a  merchant  Avho  conceals  the  truth  may  get  rich,  but  they 
will  never  be  great.  I  tell  you  the  grand  old  men  are  gone,  or  going, 
and  their  places  will  not  be  filled  by  this  generation  nor  the  next. 
The  next  generation  will  be  worse  than  this,  for  these  people  who  have 
sprung  up  and  got  rich  are  going  to  get  richer,  and  they  will  spoil  their 
children  with  money  and  a  fashionable  education.  They  are  doing  it 
now,  and  by  and  by  these  children  will  get  to  be  proud  and  vain  and 
no  account,  and  won't  work,  and  finally  go  down  the  hill  their  father 
climbed.  Stuck  up  vagabonds  will  marry  the  girls,  and  the  boys  will 
loaf  around  town  and  play  billiards  and  drive  a  fast  horse.  A  man 
who  was  raised  poor  and  by  a  hard  struggle  gets  rich,  is  the  biggest  fool 
in  the  world  about  his  children.  He  came  from  one  extreme  and  puts 
his  children  on  the  other. 

Nevertheless  I  am  hopeful,  and  if  I  do  sometimes  take  the  shady 
side,  I  mean  no  harm  by  it.  I  am  always  reconciled  to  what  I  can- 
not help.  The  wild  rush  for  a  big  pile  of  surplus  money  alarms  me, 
for  the  older  I  grow  the  surer  I  am  that  the  surplus  will  not  hnng 
happiness  or  be  a  blessing  to  the  children.  There  is  no  security  except 
in  honest  industry,  and  boys  won't  work  whose  fathers  are  rich.  Old 
Agur  was  right.  "Lord  give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  lest  if  I 
be  sick  I  take  thy  name  in  vain  or  lest  I  be  poor  and  steal."  But 
there  is  some  comfort  in  this  great  change  from  the  old  to  the  new. 
The  common  people  have  a  better  chance  than  they  used  to  have.  All 
classes  are  assimulating  and  becoming  more  alike — more  on  an  equality. 
One  man  is  about  as  good  as  another  now,  if  not  better.  The  Joe 
Brown  type  is  in  the  ascendant,  and  the  humblest  man  has  an  equal 
chance  for  the  highest  honors.  So  let  it  rip  along,  for  a  wise  Provi- 
dence is  above  us.  *  ^-  *  '■^■'  '■■ 

Cobe  says  he  "aint  makin'  a  blessed  thing — no  corn,  no  'taters,  no 
cotton,  no  nuthin' — and  Willy  is  down  with  the  new-mony,  and  the 
chickens  all  died  with  the  cholera ; "  and  then  he  gave  a  three-cornered 
grin  and  squeezed  his  tobacco  between  his  teeth  as  he  remarked,  "l)ut, 
major,  it  ain't  nigh  as  bad  as  it  mout  be;  it  ain't  nigh  as  bad  as  war." 
Then  he  stuck  his  heels  in  the  little  mule's  flanks  and  away  he  went 
galloping  up  the  road.     There  used  to  be  a  bureau  called  the  ])ureau 


122  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE. 

of  refugees  and  abandoned  lands,  and  Cobe  says  if  them  yankees  will 
revive  it  now  he  is  about  ready  to  jine  the  concern.  Says  he  will  do  most 
anything  except  beg  or  steal,  or  go  to  the  poor  house.  So  when  I 
feel  melanchoUy  I  think  about  Cobe  and  cheer  up.  The  truth  is,  we 
all  borrow  too  much  trouble.  It  is  better  to  look  back  once  in  awhile 
and  recall  the  vast  amount  of  fears  and  forebodings  that  were  wasted 
and  maybe  that  will  give  us  brighter  hopes  of  the  future. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^  ;K  >;- 

There's  a  new  lot  of  boys  a  circulatin'  around  us  now.  Grand- 
children have  come  to  visit  us  and  see  the  spring  show  open  in  our 
country  home.  Penned  up  for  months  in  a  little  city,  they  have  lived  in 
a  sort  of  prison  home  and  feel  now  like  school  boys  when  recess  comes 
— Avant  to  go  out  and  rock  somebody.  They  hardly  took  time  to  kiss 
and  say  howdy  and  shuck  off  their  store  clothes  before  they  were  oft' 
— dabblin'  in  the  branch,  rockin'  the  ducks  in  the  little  pond,  tighten 
the  ganders  as  they  stand  guard  over  their  sitting  mates,  digging  bait, 
fishing  for  minners,  rollin'  an  old  hogshead  down  the  hill,  breakin'  the 
bull  calf  and  every  half  hour  sendin'  to  grandma  for  some  more  gin- 
gerbread. Here  they  go  and  there  they  go,  while  their  poor  mother 
jumps  up  every  five  minutes  to  see  if  they  havent  got  killed  or 
drowned  or  turned  over  the  hen-house.  She  had  like  to  took  a  fit  this 
mornin'  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window  and  seen  'em  coming  dov\n 
the  big  road  with  a.  calf  a  pullin'  a  little  wagon  with  gum-log  wheels. 
One  a  pullin'  haw,  another  pullin'  gee,  and  four  of  'em  a  ridin'  and 
all  a  hollerin'  tell  they  made  such  a  racket  the  calf  took  a  panic  and 
run  away  with  the  whole  concern  and  never  stopped  tell  he  got  in  the 
branch  and  landed  their  gable  ends  in  the  water. 

Blessings  on  the  children  and  the  children's  children.  How  I  do 
love  to  have  'em  around  and  see  'em  frolic  and  ever  and  anon  hear 
one  squall  with  a  cut  finger  or  a  stumped  toe,  or  the  bark  knocked  off 
his  hide  somewhere.  What  a  pity  they  have  got  to  grow  up  and  see 
trouble  and  be  sent  to  the  legislature  or  congress,  and  there  get  a  lit- 
tle behind  in  morals  and  money.  But  sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof. 

P.  S. — Now  is  the  time  to  plant  potatoes.  Be  shore  to  plant  'em 
in  the  dark  of  the  moon  and  then  plant  some  more  just  two  weeks 
later,  and  they'll  be  "allee  samee."     I  tried  it  last  year. 

•^  He  *  *  -i^  ^ 


>.i.:iidf^4^^r--_. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  125 

My  little  boy  geared  up  au  imitatioii  bug  last  night,  made  of  black 
cloth  with  horse-hair  legs — au  awful  looking  varmint — and  slyly 
swung  it  before  me  on  a  stick,  and  I  had  like  to  have  a  fit,  trying  to 
knock  the  ugly  thing  out  of  my  face.  The  little  rascal  just  laid 
down  and  hollered,  and  the  family  ain't  done  laughing  about  it  till 
yet.  Mrs.  Arp  sometimes  tells  me  I  let  them  take  too  many  liberties 
with  the  dignity  of  their  paternal  ancestor,  but  it's  all  right,  I  reckon. 
And  I  noticed  the  other  night  when  the  girls  jei'ked  her  up  from  the 
sofa  and  whirled  her  round  the  room  to  the  music  of  the  dance,  she 
submitted  to  it  with  a  humility  and  a  grace  that  was  impressive.  I 
like  that.  I  like  an  affectionate  familiarity  between  parents  and 
children,  though  I  want  it  understood  that  I'm  the  boss  of  the  family, 
that  is,  when  Mrs.  Arjy  is  away  from  home.  I  give  'em  butter  on 
their  biscuit  as  a  regular  thing,  but  when  I  put  sugar  on  the  butter 
I  expect  'em  to  be  more  than  ordinarily  grateful. 


126  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


On  a  Strain. 

In  a  numerous  family  of  eight  or  ten  children  and  some  poor  kin, 
it  is  right  hard  to  maintain  them,  and  keep  up  Avith  the  nabors  in 
style  and  appearances.  That  is,  it  is  right  hard  to  do  it  from  the 
profit  of  a  little  farm,  and  so  if  a  man  can't  make  a  little  money  out- 
side, he  has  to  live  on  a  strain.  Folks  are  just  obliged  to  keep  up 
with  the  nabors,  strain  or  no  strain.  The  children  must  have  as  good 
clothes  and  the  parlor  as  good  furniture,  and  there  must  be  as  much 
good  eating  when  company  comes,  and  as  good  china  ware  to  eat  out 
of,  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  But  it  is  all  a  pardonable  pride,  for 
mothers  are  proud  of  their  children,  and  their  greatest  pleasure  is  to 
see  them  look  as  well  as  other  people's.  Mothers  have  to  stay  at  home 
all  the  time,  and  home  ought  to  be  made  as  attractive  as  possible. 
The  men  and  the  boys  can  go  about  and  see  folks  and  talk  and  joke 
and  have  a  good  time,  and  they  don't  care  so  much  for  show  or  orna- 
ment, but  woman  is  penned  up  at  home  and  has  to  look  at  the  same 
old  thing  from  morning  till  night  and  night  till  morning.  I  don't  mean 
to  say  that  she  is  a  prisoner  or  unhappy  by  her  fireside,  for  she  is  not,  but 
her  mind  is  active  and  her  emotions  are  wide-awake,  and  it  is  her 
nature  to  love  the  beautiful,  both  in  art  and  nature.  Men  too  fre- 
quently forget  this,  and  neglect  many  little  things  that  would  give  the 
good  wife  and  daughters  pleasure.  A  man  would  let  a  worn-out  curtain 
hang  and  hang  until  it  was  all  faded  out  by  the  sun  or  speckled  by 
the  flies,  and  he  had  just  as  leave  see  it  tacked  up  as  hung  from  a 
cornice.  If  a  window  glass  gets  broken  he  is  content  to  paste  a  piece 
of  paper  over  the  hole,  and  sometimes  he  won't  do  that,  and  the  poor 
wife  has  to  stick  a  pillow  or  some  old  rags  in  it  to  keep  out  the  wind. 
I've  seen  the  like  of  that  at  poor  folks'  houses,  and  I  always  blamed 
the  man  for  it,  for  it  is  his  business,  and  he  could  fix  it  up  if  he 
would.  AVoman  gets  discouraged  after  awhile  about  fixing  up,  and 
then  she  becomes  careless  and  sloven,  and  maybe  goes  to  eating  snuff 
on  the  sly — on  the  sly  at  first,  but  after  awhile  as  a  regular  thing. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  127 

She  makes  that  compromise  with  her  indifferent  husband,  and  after 
that  they  just  live  along  after  a  fashion,  and  call  it  life. 

In  such  cases  there  is  a  sad  difference  between  the  pretty,  nice, 
sweet  girl  he  married  a  few  year  ago  and  the  Avife  he  has  got  now, 
and  he  is  more  to  blame  for  it  than  she  is.  Why  dident  he  fix  up 
some  home-made  pleasures  for  her  ?  He  could  make  some  cornice  for 
the  curtains,  and  a  hanging  shelf  for  the  books,  and  he  could  buy  a 
cheap  chromo  or  two  for  the  walls,  and  put  a  scraper  on  the  door-step, 
and  whitewash  the  fence,  and  plant  out  some  rosebushes,  and  get  a 
woodbine  and  a  jessamine  from  tlie  swamp  and  grow  them  by  the  front 
piazza,  and  then  border  the  garden  walks,  and  do  a  lot  of  little  things, 
and  keep  doing  them  for  her  sake;  and  it  would  pay  him  well,  for 
it  v.-ould  bring  smiles  and  loving  words,  and  above  all,  it  would  bring 
content  and  happiness.  Woman  loves  ornament,  for  it  is  her  nature, 
and  why  shouldent  she?  Our  Heavenly  Father  painted  nature  in 
beautiful  colors.  He  adorned  the  birds  with  plumage,  and  the  fields 
■with  flowers,  and  the  heavens  with  stars.  All  these  costs  us  nothing 
to  look  at  and  admire.  The  best  thing  and  the  most  beautiful  things 
in  nature  are  the  cheapest.  Eiches  can't  buy  them,  nor  hoard  them, 
nor  hide  them  from  the  poor.  Air  and  sunlight,  and  water,  and  shade 
trees,  and  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  the  sweet  songs  of  happy  birds,  and 
the  love  of  children,  and  good  health,  and  refreshing  sleep  and  the 
happy  union  of  loving  hearts — all  these  cost  nothing,  and  are  worth 
more  to  make  us  happy  than  anything  else.  Well,  of  course  we 
must  have  something  to  eat  and  something  to  wear,  but  it  is  only 
the  rich  Avho  don't  have  a  good  appetite  and  who  have  nothing  to 
wear.  All  the  poor  folks  in  this  region  have  enough  to  eat  and 
enough  clothes  to  make  them  comfortable,  but  I  do  know  of  some 
rich  ones  who  are  always  troubled  because  they  have  nothing  to  wear. 
Some  of  them  can't  go  to  church  for  want  of  a  new  dress  or  a  new 
bonnet  or  a  shawl,  or  a  set  of  jewelry  as  fine  as  their  nabors. 

The  most  important  food  in  the  world  is  bread,  and  it  is  the 
cheapest,  and  then  comes  milk  and  molasses,  and  meat,  which  are  all 
Avithin  the  reach  of  a  workingman's  purse.  It  is  a  wise  provision  of  a 
kind  Providence  that  the  labor  of  one  man,  whether  upon  the  farm 
or  in  the  workshop,  will  feed  and  clothe  eight  persons  and  keep  them 
comfortable — that  is,  eight  dependent  persons,  as  a  wife  and  six  chil- 
dren, and   himself.     When  there  are  more  than  six   children  in  a 


128  The  "Farm  and  The  FmEgroE. 

family,  the  older  ones  are  big  enough  to  help — that  is,  unless  the  good 
wife  has  doubled  on  him  and  has  a  whole  passel  of  twins,  which  she 
ought  not  to  do  if  she  can  help  it.  But  poor  folks  for  children  and 
poor  folks  for  twins,  and  when  I  remonstrated  with  Cobe  about  it,  he 
smiled  and  said :  "It's  all  right,  it's  all  right,  and  me  and  the  old 
'oman  ain't  sorry  nary  bit,  for  the  Lord  never  sent  a  'possum  in  the 
world  but  what  He  planted  a  'simmon  tree  close  by." 

In  this  country  most  any  laboring  man  can  earn  his  dollar  a  day, 
and  that  will  buy  bread  and  molasses  for  a  family  of  eight,  and  have 
fifty  cents  left  for  clothing  and  other  things.  It  is  mighty  little,  I  know, 
and  I  wish  it  was  more,  but  nobody  need  to  starve  or  steal.  The 
trouble  is,  that  it  don't  leave  anything  for  schooling,  or  for  sickness, 
or  doctor's  bills,  or  any  of  the  little  luxuries  of  life.  That  misfortune 
is  the  man's  own  fault,  when  you  cift  it  down,  for  he  ought  to  have 
laid  up  something  before  he  got  married,  and  something  more  before 
the  children  come  along  so  numerous;  but  we  are  all  thoughtless 
creatures  in  our  youth,  and  like  Cobe,  are  relying  upon  luck  and  the 
'simmon  tree.  I  can  look  back  now  and  see  my  own  mistakes,  and 
sometimes  feel  like  singing  that  old  song: 

I  wish  I  was  young  again, 

I'd  lead  a  different  life, 
I'd  save  my  money  and  put  it  away 

To  comfort  my  loving  wife. 

Money  is  a  right  good  thing  for  old  age,  and  every  patriarch  ought 
to  have  some.  It  dignifies  him  and  his  wife  to  have  a  surplus  that 
they  can  draw  upon  when  the  children  and  grandchildren  come  to  see 
them.  It  is  so  nice  to  be  able  to  help  those  along  that  need  help  and 
to  give  little  presents  around,  and  then  when  Christmas  comes,  and 
there  is  a  family  gathering,  it  takes  money  to  give  all  things  a  pleas- 
ant direction.  I've  heard  it  said  that  an  old  man  without  money 
is  without  friends,  and  had  as  well  be  dead,  but  that  is  a  slander  upon 
our  humanity.  I  know  a  number  of  aged  people  who  are  loved  and 
honored,  not  only  by  their  children  and  children's  children,  but  by 
the  community;  and,  although  they  are  poor,  their  every  want  is 
provided  for.  If  a  man  raises  his  children  right,  they  are  not  going 
to  turn  their  aged  parents  oft'  or  neglect  them.  We  have  no  fear  of 
want  at  our  house.  There  is  no  poor  house  waiting  for  us.  We  have 
done  all  Ave  could  for  our  children  and  they  love  us,  and  they  are  not 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  129 

waitiug  for  us  to  die  either,  so  as  to  divide  out  the  remuaut  of  their 
patrimony.  Our  fondest  ambition  now  is  to  always  have  a  home,  a 
gathering  place,  a  sacred  ancestral  spot  where,  as  long  as  we  live,  they 
will  love  to  come,  like  pilgrims  to  Jerusalem,  and  for  awhile  be  happy 
and  make  us  happy.  That  is  the  highest  and  best  earthly  joy  for  old 
folks,  and  if  they  are  too  poor  to  entertain  their  posterity  as  they 
would  like  to,  why,  then  the  posterity  must  bring  their  rations  with 
them  and  help  the  old  folks  out.  That  is  the  way  to  do  it.  I  know 
a  venerable  man  now  in  his  ninetieth  year,  who  lives  not  tar  from  me, 
at  his  old  homestead,  where  he  has  lived  for  half  a  century,  and  his 
children  are  all  married  and  gone  but  one,  and  she  wouldn't  leave 
him.  I  remember  when  he  was  a  distinguished  member  of  congress 
and  when  he  was  a  statesman  of  reputation,  and  when  he  was  a  mon- 
arch in  his  rule  over  hundreds  of  slaves  and  dependents,  and  was 
loved  and  honored  by  them,  and  when  his  draft  was  good  for  thou- 
sands of  dollars.  But  the  war  left  him  penniless,  and  all  he  saved  was 
his  homestead  and  a  few  acres  of  land  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  He 
is  very  poor  and  goes  about  with  tottering  gait  and  trembling  fingers, 
but  he  is  grand  and  noble  still,  and  never  complains.  Rich  in  mem- 
ory and  in  love  for  his  race,  it  is  still  a  feast  to  visit  him  and  listen  to 
his  counsels.  His  children  and  grandchildren  gather  there  once  or 
twice  a  year  and  make  him  happy,  and  they  always  go  laden  with  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  life — enough  and  more  than  enough  for  him. 
This  is  the  bright  side  of  our  love  and  our  humanity,  and  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  think  of  it. 

Children,  "Honor  thy  parents,  that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the 
land." 


130  The  Farih  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


New  Year's  Time. 

I  was  discoursing  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife,  about  that  last  night.  You  see, 
it  was  New  Year,  and  I  called  on  her.  I  dident  have  any  swallow-tail 
coat  and  white  kids,  but  I  called.  I  had  procured  a  bunch  of  misseltoe 
full  of  pearly  berries,  and  I  got  the  girls  to  make  it  into  a  wreath  with 
some  heliotrope  blossoms,  and  sweet  violets,  and  geraniums,  and  straw, 
berry  blooms  which  they  had  in  the  pit,  and  as  she  sat  by  the  parlor  fire 
I  came  in  and  addressed  her :  "Fair  lady,  I  come  with  the  New  Year's 
greeting.  May  it  bring  you  joy  and  peace,  and  love  and  rest,  and 
happy  days.  Thirty  long  years  of  devotion  and  arduous  duty  in  the 
infantry  service  of  your  country  entitles  you  to  be  crowned  the  queen 
of  love  and  beauty.  Allow  me  to  encircle  your  brow  with  this 
wreath."  She  enjoyed  that  first-rate,  and  when  the  girls  took  off  the 
chaplet  to  show  it  to  her,  she  remarked  with  a  touch  of  sadness,  ''It 
is  very  beautiful,  but  your  promising  parent  has  been  promising  me  a 
tiara  of  diamonds  for  thirty  years,  and  now  he  pays  me  off*  in  mistle- 
toe and  flowers."  "Solomon,"  said  I,  "in  all  his  glory,  had  no  such 
gems  as  these.  You  know,  my  dear,  I  have  always  desired  to  be  able 
to  purchase  a  diamond  ring  and  breast-pin  and  a  diamond  tiara  for 
you,  not  that  you  need  any  ornaments  to  make  you  beautiful  and 
attractive,  for  all  the  gems  of  Golconda  could  add  nothing  to  your 
natural  loveliness."  "Ralph,"  said  she,  "your  father  has  got  a  fit; 
you  had  better  throw  some  water  on  him." 

"But  then,"  continued  I,  "the  love  of  ornament  is  natural  to 
women  ;  Isaac  knew  her  weakness  when  he  sent  Rebecca  the  ear-rings 
and  bracelets.  The  ear-rings  weighing  half  a  shekel  apiece,  which, 
according  to  the  tables,  made  the  pair  worth  exactly  sixty-two  and  a 
half  cents.  It  rejoices  me,  my  dear,  that  I  shall  soon  be  able  to 
present  you  with  a  full  set  of  genuine  diamonds  of  the  first  water." 

"When  did  you  get  so  suddenly  rich ? "  says  she.  "Have  you 
drawn  a  prize  in  a  lottery?"     "Not  at  all,  by  no  means,"  said  I. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  131 

"But  a  London  chemist  has  just  discovered  how  to  make  diamonds  of 
charcoal.  They  have  known  for  20  years  how  to  make  charcoal  out 
of  diamonds,  but  now  they  reverse  the  process  and  pure  diamonds  will 
soon  be  manufactured  on  a  large  scale,  and  it  is  predicted,  will  be  sold 
at  about  8  dollars  a  bushel.  When  they  get  down  to  that  price,  my 
dear,  I  am  going  to  buy  you  a  whole  quart  and  you  can  string  'em  all 
over  you  and  cook  in  'em  and  wash  in  'em  and  make  up  the  beds  in 
'em.  I'm  going  to  stick  a  kohinor  in  the  end  of  the  broom  handle. 
What  do  you  think  of  that,  my  dear,  won't  it  be  elegant  ? " 

"No  it  won't,"  said  she.  "I  don't  want  any  of  your  charcoal  dia- 
monds. Eight  dollars  a  bushel  is  25  cents  for  the  quart  you  propose 
to  spend  on  me.  I  wouldn't  be  so  extravagant  if  I  were  you.  No  I 
thank  you.  Isaac  spent  more  than  that  on  Rebecca,  and  didn't  hurt 
himself.  Buy  me  a  carriage  and  horses  and  I'll  do  without  the  dia- 
monds. They  were  intended  for  homely  folks,  and  I  am  so  beautiful 
and  lovely  I  don't  need  them.  Suppose  you  try  me  with  a  pearl  neck- 
lace. I  reckon  your  London  man  is  not  making  pearls  out  of  char- 
coal, is  he?" 

"Why,  that's  an  old  trick,"  said  I.  "Parisian  jewelers  have  them 
at  fifty  cents  a  string  and  you  can't  tell  them  from  the  genuine. 
What  does  it  matter  if  they  are  cheap  so  they  are  beautiful  ?  What 
are  all  the  gems  of  the  ocean  to  be  compared  to  these  fragrant  and 
lovely  flowers  that  cost  us  nothing?  Beautiful  flowers  that  "weep 
■without  woe  and  blush  without  a  crime."  I  never  liked  golden 
ornaments,  nohow,  as  Tom  Hood  says,  it's  "bright  and  yellow,  hard 
and  cold,"  you  can't  tell  it  from  brass  without  close  inspection,  and  it 
wouldent  be  worn  as  jewelry  if  it  was  cheap.  I  wish  everything  was 
cheap — cheap  as  the  air  and  the  water.  Then  we  wouldent  be  tied 
down  to  one  little  spot  all  the  time,  but  we  would  travel — we  would 
go  to  Florida  and  California  and  London  and  Paris  and  all  over  the 
Alps,  and  see  the  pyramids  and  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  and  when  we 
got  tired  Ave  would  come  back  home  again  and  rest.  Wouldent  that 
be  splendid?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Arp.  "All  that  is  very  romantic,  but  it 
sounds  very  much  like  '  college  talk,'  as  old  Mr.  Dobbins  would  say. 
Whenever  he  hears  anybody  gassing  around  or  talking  extraordinary 
he  says,  "Oh,  that  don't  amount  to  anything.  Its  college  talk."  He 
says  he  never  knew  a  college-bred  man  that  didn't  build  air-castles. 


132  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

and  imagine  a  heap  more  than  ever  come  in  sight.  We  are  right  here 
on  this  farm  and  we  will  never  see  California  nor  the  pyramids,  and 
I'll  never  see  the  diamonds  nor  the  pearls,  and  I  don't  care  to,  but  I 
never  like  cheap  things  for  they  are  not  much  account — so  will  fall 
back  on  the  flowers,  and  when  you  have  a  little  money  to  spare  I  want 
to  send  on  for  a  few  choice  ones  and  a  collection  of  seed.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

"I  do,  madam,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  sensible  woman.  You  shall 
have  the  money  if  I  have  to  sell  my  Sunday  boots.  '  Bring  flowers, 
bring  flowers  to  the  fair  young  bride.'" 

I  believe  it's  a  good  rule  for  everybody  to  attend  to  their  own  busi- 
ness. The  other  night  I  was  reading  aloud  to  the  family  about  a 
feller  who  was  standing  at  the  forks  of  the  road  with  an  umbrella 
over  him,  when  a  flock  of  sheep  came  along  and  got  tangled  up,  and 
so  he  thought  he  would  help  the  driver  by  shooing  'em  a  little 
and  waving  his  umbrel.  An  old  ram  dident  like  that  and  suddenly 
made  for  him  and  went  through  his  umbrel  like  it  was  a  paper  hoop, 
and  having  knocked  him  down  in  the  mud,  he  had  to  lay  there  until 
about  a  hundred  sheep  jumped  over  him  one  at  a  time.  When  he 
arose  and  took  in  his  dilapidated  condition,  he  remarked:  "The  next 
time  I  see  a  drove  of  sheep  a-coming  I  reckon  I'll  attend  to  my  own 
business." 

Next  day  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife,  was  fixing  to  grind  up  sausage  meat 
smd  I  ventured  to  remark  that  if  she  would  salt  the  pieces  before  she 
put  them  through  the  machine,  it  would  save  her  a  heap  of  trouble. 
Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up  and  as  she  looked  at  me  she  assumed  a 
chivalric  attitude  and  remarked:  "There  will  be  an  old  ram  after 
you  the  first  thing  you  know."  Of  course  I  retired  in  good  order, 
and  now  I  can't  make  a  remark  about  domestic  aff^airs  without  having 
that  old  ram  thrown  up  to  me.  You  see  a  woman  has  more  liberty  of 
speech  than  a  man,  for  its  mighty  nigh  the  only  liberty  she  has  and  I 
don't  begrudge  her  the  use  of  it.  But  then  their  five  senses  are  more 
sensitive  and  acute  than  ours.  In  fact  I  think  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp, 
has  seven  or  eight,  for  she  can  come  to  a  conclusion  about  things  so 
quick  it  makes  my  head  swim,  and  I  know  she  must  have  some  per- 
ceptions unknown  to  the  books.  She  can  hear  more  unaccountable 
noises  in  the  night,  and  see  more  dirt  on  the  floor,  and  smell  more 
disagreeable  odors  than  anybody  in  the  world.     I  won't  say  she  can 


The  Fakm  and  The  Fereside.  133 

point  partridges,  but  a  few  years  ago  our  nabor  come  over  one  day 
aud  said  he  had  lost  his  dog,  and  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  laid  down  her 
knitting,  and  says  she:  "That  dog  is  in  our  well.  The  water  has 
tasted  and  smelt  like  a  dog  all  day."  We  all  laughed  at  her  and  con- 
tinued to  use  the  water  for  two  or  three  days,  but  she  dident.  Finally 
we  give  it  up  that  something  was  wrong,  and  I  sent  a  darky  down  a 
hundred  feet  to  the  bottom,  and  shore  enough  there  was  the  dog. 

"Well,  the  rats  took  possession  of  our  house  not  long  ago  and  we 
could  hear 'em  at  all  times  of  night  ripping 'around  overhead  and 
playing  tag  and  leap-frog,  till  it  was  past  endurance.  So  I  got  some 
rat  poison  that  was  warranted  to  drive  'em  away  to  water,  and  shore 
enough  they  disaj)peared  and  we  were  happy.  The  next  morning  my 
wife,  Mrs.  Arj),  was  snuffling  around  about  the  mantel-piece,  and  says 
she,  "William,  these  rats  are  dead,  but  they  never  went  after  water 
— they  are  all  in  these  walls."  Well,  we  dident  pay  much  attention 
until  next  day,  when  some  of  the  family  thought  there  was  a  very 
slight  taint  in  the  atmosjDhere.  We  waited  another  day,  and  then  had 
to  take  down  the  mantel-piece  and  found  six  dead  ones  behind  it  as 
big  as  young  squirrels,  and  we  have  mighty  nigh  tore  the  house  all  to 
pieces  hunting  for  the  rest  of  'em.  Fact  is,  we  had  to  quit  the  room, 
and  it's  just  gittin'  so  now  we  can  live  in  it.  There's  no  fooling  such 
a  nose  with  fraudulent  combinations.  If  a  man  ventures  to  take  a 
little  something  for  his  stomach's  sake  and  his  often  infirmities,  she  can 
tell  what  kind  of  medicine  it  was  by  the  time  he  gets  to  the  front 
gate,  which  to  say  the  least  of  it  is  very  inconvenient. 


134  The  FapvM  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


Old  Thtngs  Are  Passing  Away  and  All  Things  Have  Become: 
New. 

That  is  the  way  it  used  to  be  in  Scripture  times,  and  it  is  the  same 
way  now.  I  wonder  what  were  their  old  things?  In  those  primitive  days 
there  were  not  very  many  things  of  any  kind — not  much  invention  or 
contrivance — no  steamboats,  or  steam  cars,  or  telegraphs,  or  telephones, 
or  sewing  machines,  or  telescopes,  or  spectacles,  or  cooking  stoves,  or 
reaping  machines,  or  threshing  machines,  or  patent  plows,  or  cotton 
factories,  or  wool  carders,  or  printed  books,  or  the  like.  But  stiU  I 
suppose  they  did  improve  some,  and  shook  off  the  old  ways  of  living, 
and  cooking,  and  dressing.  I  was  looking  at  a  venerable  patch-work 
quilt  the  other  day  that  a  good  old  lady  made  some  forty  years  ago, 
and  it  was  very  nice  and  pretty;  and  right  beside  it,  on  another  bed, 
was  a  printed  one  that  was  pretty,  too.  One  costs  days  and  weeks  of 
labor,  and  the  fingers  got  tired,  and  so  did  the  eyes,  and  I  reckon  the 
back ;  and  if  the  labor  and  time  could  be  fairly  computed,  it  was  worth 
twenty -five  dollars,  and  now  one  can  be  made  for  a  dollar  that  is  just 
as  good  and  just  as  pretty.  What  a  world  of  trouble  our  forefathers 
and  foremothers  had !  And  yet  they  were  just  as  happy  and  got 
along  about  as  easy  as  we  do.  They  dident  want  much  and  they 
dident  have  much.  They  had  simple  ways  and  simple  habits.  They 
prized  what  they  made  a  good  deal  more  than  we  do  what  we  buy. 
When  the  good  housewife  put  the  last  stitch  in  a  woolen  coverlet,  or 
even  a  pair  of  woolen  socks,  she  felt  happy.  Her  work  was  a  success 
and  it  was  a  pride. 

The  other  day  I  received  a  present  of  a  pair  of  socks,  knit  with 
golden  silk,  and  the  good  old  lady  wrote  me  a  note  with  her  trembling 
fingers  that  this  was  the  865th  pair  that  she  had  knit  upon  the  same 
needles;  that  she  began  more  than  half  a  century  ago  and  had  knit 
for  young  and  old,  for  silver  weddings  and  golden  weddings,  and  for 
weddings  that  were  new-born — when  the  lily  and  the  rose  put  their 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  135 

first  blush  upon  the  maiden's  cheek;  that  she  had  knit  scores  of  pairs 
for  the  soldiers  in  the  last  terrible  war,  both  in  the  field  and  in  the 
hospital,  and  that  she  had  never  lost  any  time  from  her  other  house- 
hold duties,  but  knit  only  after  her  other  labors  were  done. 

Well,  it  is  a  wonderful  amount  of  work  to  think  about.  I  know 
some  venerable  women,  who  are  close  akin  and  very  dear  to  me,  who 
have  been  working  in  the  same  way,  too.  They  havent  knit  as  much, 
but  they  have  sewed  and  patched  and  darned  for  large  households  and 
never  complained.  It  is  a  world  of  woi-k  for  a  mother  to  keep  her 
children  clothed,  especially  in  these  days  when  it  takes  more  clothes  than 
it  used  to.  How  many  little  jackets,  and  waists,  and  breeches,  and 
shirts,  and  drawers,  and  petticoats,  and  dresses,  and  aprons,  and  socks, 
and  stockings!  When  the  great  pile  of  clothes  comes  in  from  the 
washerwoman,  and  Mrs.  Arp  sits  down  beside  it  to  assort  out  and  put 
away  in  the  different  drawers,  I  look  on  with  amazement,  and  wonder 
when  she  made  them  all.  Why,  it  takes  about  sixty  different  gar- 
ments for  our  youngest  child,  who  is  only  ten  years  old,  and  she  hasent 
got  anything  fine — not  very  fine.  There  are  about  ten  little  dresses, 
mostly  calico,  and  a  like  number  of  undergarments  and  stockings  and 
aprons,  but  it  takes  work,  work — lots  of  work — and  the  sewing  machine 
rattles  away  most  all  the  time.  What  a  blessing  that  wonderful  inven- 
tion is  to  woman,  for  society  is  exacting  and  progressive,  and  the 
families  of  moderate  means  could  hardly  keep  in  sight  of  the  rich  if 
all  the  stitches  had  to  be  made  by  hand.  As  it  is,  we  keep  up  pretty 
well — that  is,  we  keep  in  a  respectable  distance — and  our  folks  can  fix 
up  well  enough  to  go  to  church  and  send  the  children  to  school. 

The  old  ways  were  pretty  hard  ways,  and  the  next  generation  is  not 
going  to  work  like  the  last.  I  am  glad  that  it  won't  have  to,  for  it  is 
a  waste  of  time  and  toil  to  make  a  patch-work  quilt  now,  or  to  knit 
the  stockings,  or  to  beat  the  biscuit  dough,  or  to  bake  them  in  a  spider 
with  coals  underneath  and  coals  on  top  of  the  heavy  old-fashioned  lid. 
Our  mothers  used  to  do  all  that  "when  niggers  was,"  but  the  cooking 
stove  came  along  just  in  the  right  time,  and  now  it  is  much  easier 
to  cook  "when  niggers  wasent." 

Everything  was  hard  to  do  in  the  old  times.  It  was  hard  to  thresh 
out  the  wheat  with  a  couple  of  hickory  flails.  I  have  swung  them 
many  a  day  until  my  arms  were  tired,  and  I  could  find  only  a  few 
bushels  under  the  straw  after  a  half  day's  work.     But  it  made  me 


136  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

strong  and  made  the  wheat  bread  taste  mighty  good.  I  remember  the 
first  cotton  gin  that  was  put  up  in  our  county,  and  the  long  round 
bags  we  used  to  pack  with  a  crow-bar,  and  how  we  used  to  wagon  it 
to  Augusta  and  camp  out  at  night  and  hear  the  old  trusty  wagoners 
recite  their  wonderful  adventures.  It  was  a  glorious  time  to  us  boys, 
and  when  we  got  back  home  again  and  brought  sugar,  and  salt,  and 
cofiee,  and  molasses  and  shoes  all  round  for  white  and  for  black  with 
the  wooden  measures  in  them,  and  the  names  written  upon  them  all, 
the  family  was  as  happy  and  merry  as  if  Christmas  had  come  before 
its  time.  I  remember  when  a  pocket-knife  was  a  wonderful  treasure, 
and  a  pair  of  boots  the  height  of  all  ambition.  But  now  a  pocket- 
knife  is  nothing  to  a  boy.  He  can  lose  it  in  a  month  and  get  another, 
and  if  he  isent  born  in  boots,  he  gets  them  soon  after. 

"  I  remember,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  windows  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn." 

Well,  there  was  no  glass  in  that  window — only  a  shutter — and 
there  was  no  ceiling  overhead.  But  we  boys  kept  warm  under  the 
cover  of  a  winter  night,  and  when  thfe  rain  pattered  on  the  shingle 
roof  above  us  it  was  the  sweetest  and  most  soothing  lullaby  in  the 
world.  Folks  would  complain  now  if  their  children  had  to  put  up 
with  such  a  shelter,  and  I  reckon  they  ought  to,  for  this  generation 
haven't  been  raised  that  way  and  they  couldent  stand  it.  But  we 
found  out  during  the  war  what  we  could  stand,  and  it  dident  take  us 
very  long  to  get  used  to  it.  A  shingle  roof  and  a  plank  window 
would  have  been  a  luxury  then.  But  even  war  is  not  as  hard  as  it 
used  to  be.  Here  is  a  road  in  front  of  my  house  that  Gen.  Jackson's 
soldiers  cut  out,  and  is  called  Jackson's  road  yet.  He  cut  it  out  for  a 
hundred  miles  during  the  war  of  1812.  In  those  days,  when  the  sol- 
diers wanted  to  march  across  a  country,  they  had  to  carry  the  roads 
with  them.  They  had  to  make  them  as  they  went  along ;  but  now 
the  railroads  pick  up  an  army  and  hurry  it  along — everything  is 
lightning  now. 

Truly,  the  old  things  are  done  away.  Farewell  to  home-made 
chairs,  and  home-made  jeans,  and  the  old  back  log,  and  the  crane  that 
swung  in  the  kitchen  fire-place,  and  to  home-made  baskets,  and  shuck 
collars,   and  shuck  foot-mats,  and  dominicker  chickens  and  old-fash- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  137 

ioued  cuw's,  and  castor  oil,  aud  paregoric,  and  opodeldoc,  and  salts, 
and  sassafras  tea.  Farewell  to  marigolds  aud  pinks  and  liolly-hocks, 
for  there  are  finer  flowers  now.  Farewell  to  simplicity  of  manners, 
and  water  without  ice,  and  temperate  habits,  and  contented  disposi- 
tions. Farewell  to  abundance  of  time  to  come  and  to  go  and  to  stay, 
for  everybody  is  in  a  hurry  now — a  dreadful  hurry — for  there  is  a 
pressure  upon  us  all,  a  pressure  to  keep  up  Avith  the  crowd,  and  the 
times,  and  with  society.  Push  ahead,  keep  moving,  is  the  Avatchword 
now,  and  we  must  push  or  we  wdll  get  run  over,  and  be  crushed  and 
forgotten. 

So  let  us  all  work  and  keep  up  if  we  can.  We  must  fall  into  line 
and  keep  step  to  the  new  music  that  is  in  the  air.  "Old  Hundred" 
is  gone,  and  "Sweet  Home,"  and  "Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  and 
"  Billy  in  the  Low-grounds,"  a.nd  now  it  is  something  else  that  passeth 
comprehension.  But  there  is  no  use  in  complaining  about  what  we 
cannot  help,  for  some  things  are  better,  even  if  others  are  worse.  We 
can  still  do  our  duty  and  put  on  the  brakes  for  our  children.  We 
can  tell  them  to  go  slow  and  go  sure.  Be  honest.  Money  is  a  good 
thing,  but  money  gained  by  fraud  or  by  luck  will  do  no  good.  Money 
earned  by  honest,  diligent  labor  is  the  only  kind  that  will  stick  to  a 
man  and  do  good.  Money  is  a  social  apology  for  lack  of  brains  or 
lack  of  education  or  graceful  manners,  but  it  is  no  apology  for  lack  of 
honesty  or  good  principles.  Make  money,  save  money,  but  not  at  the 
sacrifice  of  self  respect  or  the  respect  of  others.  Some  things  pay  in 
the  short  run  and  for  a  little  while,  but  honesty  and  truth  and  dili- 
gence pay  in  the  long  run,  and  that  is  the  run  we  have  to  die  by. 
Folks  differ  about  religion  and  politics,  but  all  mankind  agree  on  this. 
It  is  old-fashioned  talk,  I  know,  but  some  old-fashioned  things  are 
good  yet.  I  have  even  got  respect  for  my  rheumatism,  for  it  has 
stuck  by  me  like  a  friend  for  a  long  time,  and  is  nearly  the  only  dis- 
ease that  has  not  changed  its  name  and  its  pain  since  I  was  a  boy. 


138  The  Farm  and  The  Fieeslde. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


The  Country. 

I  have  now  been  farming  six  years,  and,  take  it  all  in  all,  I  like  it 
better  than  anything  else  that  I  have  tried.  They  say  that  a  rolling 
stone  gathers  no  moss,  and  a  man  who  is  Jack-at-all-trades  is  good  at 
none ;  but  I  don't  regret  what  I  hava  learned  about  merchandise  and 
carpentering  and  law,  for  my  experience  in  these  different  pursuits  has 
broadened  my  views  and  enlarged  my  charity  and  give  me  a  better 
knowledge  of  human  nature  than  I  would  have  learned  by  running  a 
bee-line  all  my  life.  A  man  is  happier  if  he  acquires  a  variety  of 
knowledge,  but  it  is  fortunate  for  mankind  that  some  folks  get 
absorbed  in  one  thing  and  pursue  it  diligently,  and  develop  and  im_ 
prove  and  invent,  until  they  bring  it  to  protection.  A  wise  Provi- 
dence has  created  just  such  men  in  all  ages,  and  the  world  is  mdebted 
to  them  more  than  to  any  other  class  for  its  progress  in  art  and  science. 
Still,  I  am  satisfied  that  the  Germans  have  overdone  this  thing.  A 
German  father  will  pick  out  a  trade  or  a  profession  for  his  boy  before 
he  is  in  his  teens,  and  will  drive  him  into  it  whether  he  likes  it  or  not, 
and  keep  him  at  it  about  fourteen  hours  in  a  day  until  he  is  twenty- 
one.  The  best  music  teacher  and  one  of  the  finest  musicians  I  ever 
saw,  told  me  he  never  liked  it,  and  the  unwilling  pursuit  of  it 
withered  all  his  youth.  He  had  a  taste  for  mathematics,  and  wanted 
to  be  an  engineer  and  build  railroads  and  bridges;  but  the  door  was 
shut  in  his  face.  We  had  a  Belgian  civil  engineer  at  Rome  who  stood 
at  the  top  of  his  profession,  but  he  didn't  know  anything  outside  of  it. 
He  didn't  know  a  mule's  parentage  until  I  told  him.  When  he  saw 
cotton  in  the  field  for  the  first  time,  he  said  he  thought  it  grew  on  the 
cotton-wood  tree,  and  he  asked  me  what  kind  of  a  plant  silk  grew  on. 
Outside  of  his  calling  he  had  but  little  more  sense  than  an  idiot.  He 
reminds  me  of  a  feller  that  Jules  Verne  wrote  about.  A  compiler  of 
Logarithms  had  offered  ten  thousand  dollars  reward  to  anybody  who 
could  find  a  mistake  in  any  of  his  figures,  and  so  this  feller,  "Polan- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  139» 

der,"  set  about  on  logs  and  stumps  from  day  to  day  doing  all  the  sums 
over  in  his  head,  and  one  day  the  tide  rose  on  him  and  the  alligators 
came  around  him  and  were  just  about  to  grab  him,  when  he  suddenly 
flourished  his  umbrella  and  exclaimed,  "I've  found  it!  I've  found  it! 
and  the  ten  thousand  dollars  are  mine!"  I  like  to  see  a  man  earnest 
in  his  profession  or  business,  but  a  man  oughtn't  to  become  so  absorbed 
as  to  let  the  alligators  eat  him  up.  These  over-earnest  men  sometimes 
accomplish  great  things,  but  they  are  not  much  account  to  their 
families.  A  woman  had  just  as  well  marry  a  machine,  for  she  has  no 
husband,  and  her  children  have  no  father,  and  he  is  a  nabor  to  nobody. 
There  is  no  good  sense  in  burning  midnight  oil.  It  is  contrary  to 
nature.  A  young  man  can  sit  and  study  and  rack  his  brain  until  he 
loses  his  appetite,  and  then  he  loses  his  health  and  prematurely  dies. 
The  stomach  has  got  to  be  nursed,  and  exercise  is  the  best  doctor.  If 
the  stomach  is  out  of  order,  the  whole  man  gets  sick.  The  stomach  is 
the  most  important  part  of  the  human  machine.  Some  folks  talk 
about  the  heart  being  the  seat  of  the  affections  and  the  emotion,  but 
the  heart  can  be  diseased  and  the  man  not  know  it.  It  has  no  effect 
upon  the  brain  or  upon  man's  cheerfulness  or  hilarity;  but  if  the 
stomach  is  out  of  order  the  whole  machine  is  demoralized  until  it  is 
fixed  up  again.  Old  Solomon  understood  it  when  he  wroLe  about 
bowels  of  mercies  and  bowels  of  compassion.  From  their  good,  healthy 
condition  comes  the  best  reward  of  labor — out-door  labor,  on  the  farm 
or  in  the  workshop.  Good  health,  good  appetite,  good  sleep — why  a 
city  man  can't  enjoy  his  dinner  Avithout  whetting  up  his  appetite  with 
a  drink,  and  that  is  a  poor  thing  to  grease  the  wagon  with.  It  cakes 
and  cuts  and  wears  out  the  axles.  City  folks  eat  their  meals  more 
from  habit  than  hunger,  but  country  folks  love  to  hear  the  horn  blow. 
Seven-tenths  of  the  people  live  in  the  country,  but  seven-tenths  of 
the  whisky  and  wine  and  beer  is  drank  in  the  towns,  and  most  of  'em 
drink  it  because  they  are  not  hungry  and  want  to  be.  A  right  hungry 
man  doesn't  want  whisky.  He  wants  something  to  eat — something 
solid;  and  so,  after  all  the  fuss  about  the  temperance  problem,  work, 
toil,  sweat  is  the  best  remedy,  for  a  laboring  man  can't  cheat  his 
stomach  with  juices.  Ben  Franklin  was  a  smart  man,  and  he  said 
that  man  was  a  bundle  of  habits,  and  he  said  also,  that  idleness  was 
the  parent  of  all  vice.  So  it  is  best  for  a  man  to  raise  his  boys  in  the 
country,  where  he  will  get  a  habit  of  work,  and  where  there  are  not 


140  The  Farm  axd  The  FiREsroE. 

many  temptations.  A  man  can't  throw  off  his  habits  like  he  does  his 
<joat.  If  contracted  in  youth  they  will  stick  in  manhood  and  old  age, 
whether  they  be  good  or  bad.  I've  got  an  old  mare  that  will  quit  a 
good  pasture  and  let  down  the  bars  to  go  into  a  poor  one,  and  it's  just 
because  she  got  into  a  habit  of  letting  the  bars  down.  Habits  are 
stronger  than  principles.  They  are  not  cast-iron,  for  you  can  break 
that,  but  they  are  more  like  green  withes  and  new  ropes— the  more 
you  wet  'em  the  tighter  they  draw,  especially  if  you  wet  'em  with 
whisky. 

A  farmer's  life  is  a  pretty  hard  one  in  some  respects,  and  not  one  in 
a  hundred  makes  any  clear  money  at  it— money  to  lay  up  and  put  away 
for  hard  times  or  old  age;  but  the  law  of  compensation  comes  in  and 
balances  off  all  its  troubles.  There  is  an  independence  about  it  that 
belongs  to  no  other  profession.  The  farmer  belongs  to  nobody.  His 
time  is  his  own.  If  he  can't  get  rich,  he  can  live  comfortably  and 
raise  his  childi-en  to  industry,  and  that  is  the  best  legacy  in  the  world. 
It  is  very  natural  for  a  man  to  imagine  that  other  people  are  better  off 
than  he  is,  and  to  wish  that  he  had  chosen  some  other  business.  Very 
few  are  content  with  their  lot.  Old  man  Horace,  who  lived  2,000 
years  ago,  alluded  to  this  when  he  said,  "How  comes  it  that  most 
everybody  is  dissatisfied  with  his  calling  and  thinks  he  would  be  better 
off  and  happier  if  he  were  pursuing  some  other?"  But  Horace,  like 
all  other  poets,  gave  the  preference  to  a  country  life.  He  says,  "The 
city  is  the  best  place  for  a  rich  man  to  live  in,  and  the  country  is  the 
best  place  for  a  poor  man  to  die  in;  and,  inasmuch  as  riches  are 
uncertain  and  death  is  sure,  it  becomes  a  man  to  move  to  the  country 
as  soon  as  he  can  get  there."  It  is  amusing  to  me  to  see  how  all  the 
famous  poets,  who  never  plowed  a  furrow  in  their  lives,  go  off  into 
raptures  and  ecstacies  over  rural  life : 

"God  made  the  country,  man  made  the  town." 
"How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield." 
"Delightful  toil !     There  must  be  husbandry  in  heaven." 

And  they  write  gushingly  of  fields  and  flowers  and  harvest  moon 
and  mountains  and  brooks  and  grand  old  woods  and  setting  suns  and 
happy  birds  and  tinkling  bells  and  the  cotter's  Saturday  night. 

All  that  is  mighty  pretty,  and  there  is  comfort  in  it;  but  there  is 
mighty  little  fun  in  pulling  fodder  right  now,  or  in  carrying  a  load  of 


The  Fahm  and  The  Fireside.  141 

it  through  the  long,  hot  rows  and  stepping,  like  a  blind  horse,  over 
morning  glory  vines  and  bending  corn  stalks.  There  ain't  very  much 
hilarity  about  getting  stung  with  a  packsaddle  or  fodder-blade  or 
waking  up  a  yallerjacket's  nest.  Farmers  are  not  tickled  to  death 
over  picking  cotton  all  day  as  hard  as  they  can  pick,  and  thinking 
they  will  get  200  pounds  and  it  weighed  out  about  150.  There  is  not 
very  much  fun  in  getting  up  in  the  morning  and  finding  half  a  dozen 
of  your  nabor's  hogs  or  cows  in  your  field,  and  having  to  run  after 
'em  all  through  the  wet  grass  and  then  can't  make  'em  go  out  at  the 
same  break  they  came  in.  There  is  many  a  little  trouble  that  these 
spectacled  poets  know  nothing  about,  and  never  will  until  they  try  it. 
There  is  not  much  fun  in  any  kind  of  toil,  but  it  is  the  common  lot, 
and  we  are  all  happier  when  at  work  than  when  sitting  down  or  loaf- 
ing around  in  idleness.  A  man  who  was  raised  a  pampered  youth, 
and  knew  no  wants  and  had  no  falls  or  hair-breadth  escapes,  no 
stumped  toes  or  mashed  fingers,  no  horse  to  run  away  with  him,  no 
colts  to  break,  no  bull  calf  to  drive,  hasn't  been  much  of  a  boy,  and 
will  never  be  much  of  a  man.  He  has  no  marvelous  things  to  tell 
his  little  boys  if  he  ever  has  any,  which  he  oughtn't  to  have,  consider- 
ing his  fitness  to  raise  'em. 

"When  boys  have  learned  to  farm  and  built  up  their  constitutions 
and  settled  their  habits,  why  then  is  time  enough  for  'em  to  try  the 
city  and  soar  to  more  ambitious  things ;  but  the  country  is  the  place 
to  raise  'em.  I've  a  poor  opinion  of  a  boy  raised  in  town  to  strut 
around  and  then  be  sent  to  college  to  raise  cain. 


142  The  Farm  and  The  Flreside. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


But  Once  a  Year. 

Another  busy  year  has  gone — gone  like  the  water  that  lias  passed 
over  the  dam — gone  never  to  return.  It  has  carried  many  friends 
along  with  it  and  left  sad  memories  in  our  household,  but  on  the 
whole  it  has  been  a  good  year  to  us  all,  and  Providence  has  been  kind. 
Xow  is  the  time  to  look  back  and  review  the  past — to  take  an  account 
of  stock  like  the  merchants  do — a  time  to  be  thankful  for  what  we 
bave  received,  and  to  compare  our  condition,  not  with  those  who  are 
better  off,  but  with  those  who  are  worse  off. 

It  is  a  good  time  to  feel  happy,  for  there  is  something  about  Christ- 
mas that  seems  like  a  recess  from  a  long  year  of  work,  and  toil,  and 
tribulation.  Man  needs  just  such  a  rest  for  body,  and  mind,  and 
spirit.  These  periods  of  relaxation  prolong  life,  both  of  man  and 
beast.  If  it  were  not  for  the  Sabbath  we  would  wear  out  before  we 
got  old,  and  I  remember  reading  a  long  time  ago,  about  some  emi- 
grants going  overland  to  California.  Some  of  them  rested  their  teams 
every  Sunday,  and  some  did  not,  and  the  first  got  there  several  days 
ahead,  and  were  in  the  best  condition  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey. 
But  one  day  in  seven  is  not  enough — we  want  a  whole  week  at  the  end 
of  the  year,  and  according  to  scripture  it  is  a  good  thing  to  have  a 
whole  year  in  seven — a  year  of  jubilee  when  even  the  land  we  till  shaU 
have  rest  and  a  time  to  recover  itself  and  renew  its  wasted  energies. 
Blessings  on  the  holy  fathers  who  established  the  Christmas  holidays,  and 
on  the  good  men  who  for  eighteen  centuries  have  preserved  it  for  us  and 
our  children.  It  is  a  blessed  heritage  and  belongs  to  all  alike — the  rich 
and  the  poor,  the  bond  and  the  free,  the  king  and  his  subject.  But 
these  good  old  ways  are  changing  and  becoming  cii'cumscribed.  Man- 
kind is  growing  too  stingy  of  time.  Christmas  used  to  last  from  the 
25th  of  December  to  the  6th  of  January,  and  for  twelve  days  there 
was  neither  work  nor  toil,  nor  official  business,  nor  suits  for  debt,  dun- 
joing,  nor  preparations  for  war,  but  all  was  peace  and  pleasure  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  143 

kindly  feelings.  The  peasant  was  on  a  level  with  the  prince,  and  the 
girls  and  boys  wore  chaplets  of  ivy  and  laurel  and  holly  and  ever- 
green, and  it  was  no  sin  for  them  to  take  a  sly  kiss  while  the  rosemary 
wreaths  encircled  their  brows,  for  a  kiss  under  the  rose  was  an  emblem 
of  innocence  and  had  the  sanction  of  heaven,  and  love  whispered 
while  wearing  the  mistletoe  crown  was  too  pure  to  be  lost  or  betrayed. 

I  love  the  old  superstition  that  clusters  around  this  season  of  my 
joy  and  gladness.  Long  did  I  lament  the  day  when  my  childish  eyes 
were  opened  and  I  learned  there  was  no  Saint  Nicholas  nor  Santa 
Claus,  no  reindeer  on  the  roof,  no  coming  down  the  chimney  to  fill 
the  stockings  that  hung  by  the  mantel.  Even  now  I  would  fain 
believe,  with  Skakespeare,  that  for  these  twelve  days  witches,  and 
hobgoblins  and  devilish  spirits  had  to  fly  away  from  the  haunts  of 
men  and  hide  themselves  in  the  dark  pits  and  caves  of  the  earth  while 
the  good  spirits  who  love  us  and  watch  over  us,  nestled  their  invisible 
forms  among  the  evergreens  that  hung  upon  the  walls.  It  was  pleasant 
to  think  that  on  the  last  day  of  the  twelve  the  cattle  knelt  down  at 
midnight  and  humbly  prayed  that  souls  might  be  given  them  when 
they  died,  so  that  they,  too,  might  live  in  heaven  and  worship  God. 
I  hope  the  poor  things  will  have  a  good  time  in  the  next  world,  for 
they  see  a  rough  one  in  this,  and  I  reckon  they  will,  considering  what 
a  splendid  pair  of  horses  came  down  after  the  prophet  Elijah.  Heaven 
wouldn't  be  any  the  less  heaven  to  me  to  find  my  good  dog  Bows  up 
there,  all  renewed  in  his  youth,  and  to  receive  the  glad  welcome  that 
wags  in  his  diminished  tail. 

How  naturally  we  become  reconciled  to  the  approach  of  death. 
How  tired  we  get  fighting  through  the  hard  battle  of  life.  I  remem- 
ber when  it  was  the  grief  and  horror  of  my  young  life  that  sometime 
or  other  I  Avould  have  to  surrender  and  give  it  up,  but  I  don't  care 
now.  Let  it  come.  I  would  not  live  it  over  again  if  I  could.  I  do 
not  lament  like  Job  that  I  ever  was  born,  but  still  I  have  no  desire  to 
hold  on  and  worry  and  struggle  for  several  hundred  years  longer,  as 
did  the  old  patriarchs  before  the  flood.  If  I  was  a  good  man,  and 
everything  moved  along  serenely  I  wouldn't  care,  but  there's  a  power 
of  trouble,  and  we  make  the  most  of  it  ourselves.  Like  David  and 
Solomon,  we  keep  sinning  and  repenting,  and  the  memory  of  it  haunts 
a  man  and  cuts  into  him  like  a  knife,  and  all  sorts  of  friends  come 


144  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

along  and  clutch  the  handle  and  give  it  a  gentle  twist.  Not  one  in  a 
thousand  will  pull  it  out  and  put  a  little  salve  on  the  wound. 

I  always  thought  it  a  pretty  idea  to  weigh  a  man — to  put  his  life  in 
a  pair  of  balances,  the  good  on  one  side  and  the  bad  on  the  other,  and 
let  him  rise  to  heaven  or  fall  below  it,  as  the  scales  might  turn.  I 
know  it's  not  an  orthodox  doctrine  exactly,  for  they  say  that  one  bad 
deed  will  outweigh  a  thousand  good  ones.  Nevertheless,  Belshazzer 
was  weighed,  and  the  Scriptures  abound  in  such  figui-es  of  speech.  It 
will  take  miracles  of  grace  to  save  us  all  anyhow,  and  it  becomes 
everybody  to  help  one  another,  for  the  devil  is  doing  his  best.  David 
committed  murder,  and  Solomon  worshipped  idols,  Cain  killed  his 
brother,  and  Jabob  cheated  Esau  out  of  his  birthright,  and  Noah  got 
drunk  and  Peter  denied  his  Master,  but  they  all  repented  and  got  for- 
giveness, and  if  there's  any  difference  between  folks  now  and  folks 
then  I  don't  know  it,  unless  it  is  that  they  had  the  strongest  support 
and  the  least  temptation  to  fall. 

But  then,  a  man  ought  not  to  take  too  much  comfort  from  such 
comparisons,  for  they  savor  of  vanity,  and  vanity  don't  save  anybody 
nor  keep  him  from  doing  wrong.  A  man  who  moves  along  the  path- 
way of  life  happily  and  serenely  in  the  midst  of  cares  and  temptations, 
is  a  long  ways  better  off  than  one  who  don't.  A  man  who  brmgs  no 
sorrow  to  his  friends  and  nabors  lives  to  a  better  purpose  than 
one  who  does,  and  it  must  be  a  blessed  bed  to  die  on  when  a  man  gets 
old  and  has  no  stinging  memories  in  his  pillow  case.  There  is  na 
goodlier  sight  in  nature  than  a  good  man  going  down  to  the  grave  in 
graceful  composure.  I  recall  one  who,  not  long  ago,  reached  his  four- 
score years  and  died.  He  was  a  model  of  that  sweet  decay  that  has 
no  odor  of  dissolution.  He  was  never  a  burden  nor  a  cross,  and  to 
the  last  received  his  children  and  his  children's  children  with  a  rejoic- 
ing smile.  Would  that  I,  too,  like  him,  might  go  down  behind  the 
everlasting  hills — not  in  a  cloud  nor  yet  in  a  blaze  of  glory,  but 
rather  like  the  sun  when  his  rays  are  softened  and  subdued  by  the 
Indian  summer  sky. 

Our  family  frolic  is  over.  The  show  of  it  and  the  pleasant  hilarity 
of  the  occasion,  with  all  the  delightful  surprises  and  rejoicings,  passed 
away  most  happily,  but  the  sweet  perfume  of  love  and  kindness  that 
Christmas  brought  remains  with  us  still.  It  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive,  and  the  purest  pleasure  we  can  feel  is  m  making  others 


The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside.  145 

happy.  lu  the  good  ohl  times  Prince  Rupert  used  to  go  round  in  dis- 
guise and  find  out  who  was  needy  and  grateful  and  kind,  and  when 
Christmas  came  he  distributed  his  gifts  according  to  their  deservings. 
It  seems  to  me  that  if  1  was  Mr.  Vanderbilt  I  would  like  tliat,  but 
maybe  not. 

Then  a  rich  and  merry  Christmas  to  tlie  rich, 
And  a  bright  and  happy  Christmas  to  the  poor; 

So  their  hearts  are  joyful  it  doesn't  matter  which 
Has  the  fine  velvet  carpet  on  the  floor. 

For  riches  bring  a  trouble  when  they  come, 

And  money  leaves  a  pain  when  it  goes, 
But  everybody  now  must  have  a  little  sum 

To  brighten  up  the  year  at  its  close. 

>);    ^    ^    >i<    ;ic 

Pleasing  the  children  is  about  all  that  the  majority  of  mankind  ia 
living  for  though  they  don't  realize  it  and  if  they  did  they  would  hardly 
acknowledge  it.  It  is  emphatically  the  great  business  of  this  sublu- 
nary life.  We  look  on  with  amazement  at  the  busy  crowd  in  the  town 
and  cities  that  are  ever  going  to  and  fro,  and  the  most  of  them  are 
working  and  struggling  to  please  and  maintain  children.  It  is  the 
excuse  for  all  the  mad  rush  of  business  that  hurries  mankind  through 
the  world.  It  is  the  apology  for  nearly  all  the  stealing  and  cheating 
and  lying  in  the  land.  One  time  a  man  sold  me  a  Poland  China  sow 
for  $15  and  she  eat  up  $5  worth  of  chickens  the  day  I  got  her,  and 
when  I  asked  him  why  he  didn't  tell  me  she  was  a  chicken  eater,  he 
smiled  and  said  he  thought  I  would  find  it  out  soon  enough.  He  spent 
that  money  on  his  children  and  so  I  had  to  forgive  him.  Sometimes 
when  I  ruminate  upon  the  meanness  of  we  grown-up  folks,  I  wish 
that  the  children  would  never  get  grown,  for  they  don't  get  very  mean 
or  foolish  until  they  do. 

Now  the  biggest  part  of  all  this  Christmas  business  is  to  please  the 
children.  Of  course  there  is  service  in  the  churches,  and  the  good 
pious  people  celebrate  the  day  in  prayer  and  devotion,  but  most  of  it 
is  for  the  children.  The  stores  are  thronged  with  parents  hunting 
something  for  them.  The  Christmas  trees  are  for  them,  and  all  the 
dolls  and  wagons  and  tea-sets  and  pocket-knives  and  harps  and  fire- 
crackers and  a  thousand  other  things  too  numerous  to  mention.  Wliy 
there  will  be  five  thousand  dollars  spent  in  this  county  this  week  for 


146  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

Christmas  gifts.  There  will  be  half  a  million  in  the  State.  There 
will  be  twenty  millions  in  the  United  States,  and  it  is  nearly  all  for 
children.  So,  my  young  friends,  you  must  understand  how  very 
important  you  are  in  this  world's  affairs,  but  you  needent  get  uppity 
nor  bigoty  about  it,  for  that  spoils  all  the  old  folks'  pleasure. 

Now,  let  us  all  imagine  we  are  around  the  cheerful  Christmas  fire 
and  talk  about  Christmas  and  tell  what  it  means.  Of  course  you 
know  that  it  is  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  all  Chris- 
tian people  celebrate  it.  It  is  very  common  everywhere  to  celebrate 
birthdays.  Americans  make  a  big  fuss  over  Washington's  birthday 
because  he  was  called  the  father  of  his  country.  My  folks  make  a 
little  fuss  over  my  birthday  and  my  good  wife's  birthday.  They  don't 
toot  horns  nor  pop  fire-crackers,  but  they  have  an  extra  good  dinner 
and  fix  up  a  pleasant  surprise  of  some  sort.  We  used  to  surprise  the 
children  with  a  little  present  like  a  pocket-knife,  or  a  pair  of  scissors, 
or  sleeve  buttons  or  something,  but  so  many  children  came  along  that 
there  was  a  birthday  in  sight  almost  all  the  time,  and  as  we  got  rich 
in  children  we  got  poor  in  money  and  had  to  skip  over  sometimes. 
The  4th  of  July  was  the  birthday  of  a  nation  and  so  the  nation  always 
celebrates  that  day. 

Christians  began  to  observe  Christmas  about  1,500  years  ago  at 
Jerusalem  and  Rome.  They  had  service  in  the  churches  and  made 
it  a  day  of  rejoicing.  In  course  of  time  the  young  people  rather  lost 
sight  of  the  sacredness  of  the  day  and  the  devotion  that  was  due  to 
the  occasion,  and  made  it  a  day  of  frolic  and  feasting.  They  sang 
hilarious  songs,  because  they  said  the  shepherds  sang  songs  at  Bethle- 
hem. They  made  presents  to  each  other  because  they  said  the  wise 
men  from  the  east  brought  presents  to  the  young  child  and  its  mother. 
They  kept  up  their  festivities  all  night  because  the  Saviour  was  born 
at  midnight.  The  Roman  Catholic  church  has  observed  these  annual 
celebrations  for  centuries,  and  the  Church  of  England  took  them  up, 
and  so  did  the  Protestants  in  Germany  and  other  countries.  Christ- 
ians everywhere  adopted  them,  and  Christmas  day  became  a  universal 
holiday  except  among  the  Puritans  of  New  England,  who  forbade  it 
under  penalties.  They  never  frolicked  or  made  merry  over  anything. 
In  a  great  painting  of  the  nativity  by  Raphael,  there  is  seen  a  shep- 
herd at  the  door  playing  on  a  bagpipe.  The  Tyroleese  who  live  on 
the  mountain   slopes  of  Italy  always  come  down  to  the  valleys  on 


The  Farm  a^t>  The  Fireside.  147 

Christmas  eve,  aud  they  come  carroliug  sweet  songs  and  playing  on 
musical  instruments,  and  spend  the  night  in  innocent  festivities.  A 
century  or  so  ago  there  were  many  curious  superstitions  about  Christ- 
mas. It  was  believed  thfit  an  ox  and  an  ass  that  were  near  by  when 
the  Saviour  was  born  bent  their  knees  in  supplication,  and  so  they  said 
the  animals  all  went  to  prayer  every  Christmas  night.  Of  course, 
they  might  have  known  better  if  they  had  watched  all  night  to  see, 
but  when  folks  love  a  superstition  they  humor  it.  If  a  child  believes 
in  ghosts  they  are  sure  to  see  them,  whether  they  are  there  or  not. 
Those  old-time  people  believed  that  when  the  rooster  crowed  for  raid- 
nio-ht  on  Christmas  night  all  the  wizzards  and  witches  and  hobgoblins 
and  evil  spirits  fled  away  from  the  habitations  of  men  and  hid  in 
caves  and  hollow  trees  and  deserted  houses,  and  stayed  there  for 
twelve  days. 

Nations  have  superstitions  just  like  individuals  have  them.  The 
Persians  had  their  genii  and  fairies;  the  Hindoos  their  rakshar ;  the 
Greeks  and  Romans  had  all  sorts  of  wonderful  gods  and  godesses,  such 
as  Jupiter  and  Juno  and  Hercules  and  Vulcan  and  Neptune,  and 
they  built  temples  for  them  to  dwell  in.  The  more  learned  and 
enlightened  a  people  are  the  more  sublime  are  their  superstitions.  The 
uncivilized  Indians  are  mystified  and  "see  God  in  the  clouds,  and  hear 
Him  in  the  wind."  The  native  Africans  come  down  to  crocodiles  and 
serpents  and  owls  for  their  gods.  Some  of  the  negro  tribes  take  a 
higher  grade  of  animals  and  set  their  faith  in  brer  fox  and  brer  rabbit, 
as  Uncle  Eemus  has  told  you.  When  I  was  a  boy  we  could  teU  the 
difference  in  the  negro  character  by  the  stories  they  told  us  in  their 
cabins  at  night;  and  good  negroes  always  told  us  funny,  cheerful 
stories  about  the  tar  baby,  and  the  bear  and  the  bee-tree,  and  about 
foxes  and  wolves ;  but  the  bad  negroes  told  us  about  witches  and 
ghosts  aud  Jack-o'-lanterns,  and  raw-head-and-bloody-bones.  I  used 
to  listen  to  them  until  I  didn't  dare  to  look  around,  and  I  got  up 
closer  and  closer  to  the  fire,  and  when  my  brother  called  me  I  had  to 
be  carried  to  the  house  in  a  negroe's  arms.  But  what  about  the  ever- 
greens the  holly  and  laurel  and  ivy  and  mistletoe  and  the  Christmas 
tree  ?  That  is  a  curions  history,  too,  and  it  all  came  from  the  poetry 
and  romance  that  belongs  to  our  nature.  Evergreens  have  for  ages 
been  used  as  symbols  of  immortality.  The  victors  returning  from  the 
wars  were  crowned  with  them  ;    chaplets  of  green  leaves  and  vines 


148  The  Farm  and  The  FmEsmE. 

were  made  for  the  successful  ones  at  the  Olympic  games.  The  poets 
of  Scripture  tell  us  of  green  bay  trees  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon. 
Churches  and  temples  have  been  decorated  with  them  for  centuries. 
Evergreens  have  always  had  a  poetic  prominence  in  the  vegetable 
kingdom.  We  all  love  them,  for  they  cheer  us  in  midwinter  when 
there  are  no  other  signs  of  vegetation  to  gladden  our  longing  eyes. 

Now,  children,  these  superstitions  are  all  fancy,  as  you  know,  and 
are  not  even  founded  on  fact,  and  yet  it  is  human  nature  to  love 
them.  We  are  all  fond  of  anything  that  is  marvelous,  especially  if 
it  turns  out  well  for  the  good.  We  love  to  read  the  Arabian  Nights 
and  we  rejoice  with  Alibaba  who  outwitted  the  forty  thieves,  and  with 
Aladdin  who  found  the  wonderful  lamp.  Just  so  we  rejoice  with 
Cinderella  for  marrying  the  prince,  and  we  take  comfort  in  it,  although 
Ave  know  it  never  happened.  It  is  human  nature  to  want  good  to 
triumph  over  bad,  and  on  this  heavenly  trait  in  our  humanity  is  our 
government  and  our  social  system  founded. 

You  know  all  about  St.  Nicolas  and  Santa  Claus,  and  where  that 
pleasant  superstition  came  from,  but  the  traditions  of  the  Germans 
about  the  good  Knight  Rupert  are  just  as  good,  and,  I  think,  are 
more  stimulating  to  the  children.  In  every  little  village  Knight 
Rupert  comes  out  just  after  twelve  o'clock,  and  nobody  knows  where 
he  comes  from.  He  has  a  beautiful  sleigh  and  four  fine  horses,  all 
dressed  up  in  silver  spangles  and  silver  bells,  and  he  dashes  around 
from  house  to  house  and  calls  out  the  mother  and  whispers  something 
to  her  and  she  whispers  something  to  him,  and  he  bows  his  head  and 
wags  his  long  gray  beard  and  dashes  away  to  the  next  house.  You 
see  he  is  going  around  to  find  out  from  the  mother  which  ones  of  her 
children  have  been  good  and  which  ones  have  been  bad,  so  as  to  know 
what  presents  to  bring  and  how  many.  If  the  good  mother  says  sor- 
rowfully, "Well,  Knight  Rupert,  my  Tom  has  not  been  a  good  boy; 
he  is  not  kind  to  his  sisters,  and  he  is  selfish  and  has  fights  with  other 
boys,  and  he  won't  study  at  school,  but  I  hope  he  will  get  to  be  better,  so 
please  bring  Tom  some  little  thing,  won't  you."  She  is  obliged  to  tell  the 
truth  on  all  her  children,  and  it  goes  very  hard  with  her  sometimes. 
So  after  Knight  Rupert  has  been  all  around  he  drives  away  about  dark 
and  nobody  knows  where  he  went  to.  That  night  he  brings  the  pres- 
ents while  the  children  are  all  asleep,  and  sure  enough  Tom  don't  get 
anything.     Now,  that  is  what  they  pretend  to  believe,  but  of  course 


The  FarxM  and  The  Fiiieside.  149 

IKnight  Kupcrt  is  some  good  jolly  fellow  about  town,  and  he  is  all 
bundled  up  and  disguised  and  cuts  up  just  sucli  a  figure  as  old  Santa 
Clar.s  does  in  the  pictures. 

The  year  is  almost  gone,  and  all  of  us  ought  to  stop  a  minute  and 
think  about  how  much  good  we  have  done  since  the  last  Christmas. 
How  many  times  we  have  tried  to  make  our  kindred  happy — not  only 
our  kindred,  but  our  nabors  and  companions.  As  I  came  out  of  the 
Markham  house,  in  Atlanta,  one  cold  morning,  two  little  dirty  news- 
boys came  running  to  me  from  opposite  directions  to  sell  me  a  paper. 
They  are  not  allowed  to  go  inside  the  hotels  to  sell  papers,  and  so  they 
stand  outside  in  the  cold  and  watch  for  the  men  to  come  out.  One  of 
these  boys  was  a  stout  lad  of  ten  years,  and  the  other  was  a  little  puny, 
pale-face,  barefooted  chap,  and  although  he  was  the  farthest  off,  he  got 
to  me  first.  I  said  to  the  biggest  boy,  "Why  didn't  you  run?  You 
could  have  got  here  first,"  He  smiled  and  said,  "I  dident  want  to." 
"Why  not?"  said  I.  "Is  that  boy  your  brother?"  "No,  sir,"  said  he, 
"  but  he's  little,  and  he's  been  sick."  Now,  that  was  kindness  that 
will  do  for  Christmas  or  any  other  day.  I  gave  them  a  dime  apiece, 
and  they  were  happy  for  a  little  while.  Children,  if  you  can't  do  a 
big  thing  you  can  do  a  little  thing  like  that.  I  wouldent  let  the 
little  ragged  newsboys  get  ahead  of  me. 

We  keep  Grier's  almanac  at  our  house.  We  get  a  good  many 
almanacs  from  the  merchants  as  advertisements,  but  Grier's  is  the  old 
standard  and  is  the  one  that  is  always  hung  by  the  mantle.  If  you 
have  that  kind  at  your  house  and  will  look  at  the  bottom  of  the  last 
page  to  see  what  kind  of  weather  w^e  are  to  have  this  Christmas  week 
you  will  find  it  put  down  this  way:  "Be  thankful  for  all  the  bless- 
ings you  have  enjoyed  this  year  and  try  to  do  better  the  next."  That 
is  a  curious  kind  cf  weather,  but  it  is  mighty  good  weather. 


150  The  Faem  and  The  Fieeside. 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 


Grandfather's  Day — The  Little  Urchin  of  the  Third  Gen^ 
eration. 

This  is  a  most  blessed  land — where  everything  grows  that  man  is 
obleeged  to  have,  and  a  power  of  good  things  throw'd  in  just  to  min- 
ister to  his  pleasure.  The  summer  sun  is  now  ripening  the  fruits  of 
the  earth,  and  when  I  see  children  and  grandchildren  and  nefews  and 
neeses  rejoicin'  in  their  wanderin's  over  the  fields  and  orchards,  it  car- 
ries me  back  to  the  blessed  days  of  childhood.  The  old-field  plums 
and  the  wild  strawberries  and  cherries,  mulberries  and  blackberries 
were  worth  more  then  than  gold,  and  it  made  no  difference  who  was 
priest  or  president,  or  how  rich  was  Astor  or  Girard  or  any  of  the 
nabors,  or  whether  Sal  Jackson's  bonet  was  purtier  than  Melyann 
Thompson's  or  not.  What  a  glorious  luxury  it  was  to  go  barefooted 
and  wade  in  the  branch  and  go  saining  and  climb  trees  and  hunt  bird's- 
nests  and  carry  the  corn  to  the  mill  and  leave  it,  just  to  get  to  run  a 
horse-race  home  again.  I  know  now  that  those  days  were  the  happiest, 
and  so  I  won't  rob  my  posterity  of  the  same  sort,  if  I  can  help  it.  I 
want  'em  to  love  the  old  homestead,  and  I  want  children's  children  to- 
gather  about  it  and  cherish  its  memory.  What  a  burlesque  on  child- 
hood's joy  it  must  be  to  visit  grandma  and  grandpa  in  a  crowded  city, 
penned  up  in  brick  walls  with  a  few  sickly  flowers  in  front  and  a  gar- 
den in  the  rear  about  as  big  as  a  wagon  sheet.  But  that's  the  way  the 
thing  is  drifting.  Them  calculatin'  yankees  have  long  ago  done  away 
with  the  'old  back  log'  and  the  blazing  hearth-stone  and  substituted  a 
furnace  in  the  basement  and  a  few  iron  pipes  running  around  the 
walls  and  a  hole  in  the  floor  to  let  the  heat  in.  All  that  may  be  econ- 
omy, but  in  my  opinion  a  man  can't  raise  good  stock  in  no  such  way. 
They'll  be  picayunish  and  nice  and  sharp  featured  and  gimlety,  but 
they  won't  do  to  bet  on  like  them  children  that's  been  bro't  up  'round 
a  fire-place  on  a  hundred  acre  farm  and  had  plenty  of  fresh  air  and 
latitude. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fikksidk.  151 

Pieasiu'  the  children  is  about  all  the  majority  of  mankind  are  livin' 
for,  though  they  don't  know  it;  and  if  they  did  they  wouldn't 
acknowledge  it.  It  is  emphatically  the  great  business  of  life.  We 
look  on  with  wonder  and  amazement  at  the  busy  crowds  in  a  great 
city  that  are  ever  goin'  to  and  fro  like  a  fiddler's  elbow,  and  eight  out 
of  ten  of  'em  ai'e  workin'  and  strugglin'  to  please  and  maintain  the 
children.  It's  the  excuse  for  all  the  mad  rush  of  business  that  hur- 
ries mankind  through  the  world.  It's  the  apology  for  nearly  all  the 
cheatin'  and  stealin'  and  lyiu'  in  the  land,  and  in  a  heap  of  such  cases 
I  have  thought  the  good  angels  would  drop  tears  enuf  on  the  big  book 
to  blot  'em  out  forever.  The  trouble  is,  that  most  people  are  always 
livin'  on  a  strain,  tryin'  to  do  a  little  too  much  for  their  children,  and 
scufflin'  against  wind  and  tide  to  git  just  a  little  ahead  of  their  nabors. 
Some  of  'em  won't  let  a  ten  year  old  boy  go  to  meetin'  or  to  Sunday- 
school  if  he  can't  fix  up  as  fine  as  other  boys.  They  won't  let  him  go 
barefooted  nor  wear  a  patch  behind  nor  before,  nor  ride  bareback,  nor 
go  dirty,  and  so  the  domestic  pressure  for  finery  becomes  tremendous. 
Jesso  with  bonnets,  and  parasols,  and  kid  gloves,  and  silk  dresses,  and 
chanyware,  and  carpets,  and  winder  curtins — and  a  thousand  things 
that  cost  money  and  runs  up  the  outgo  a  heap  bigger  than  the  incum. 
Generally  speakin'  this  home  pressure  ain't  a  noisy  one,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  is  very  silent  and  sad — so  sad  that  a  body  would  think  there 
was  somebody  dead  in  the  house,  and  so  after  awhile  sumhow  or  sum- 
how  else  the  finery  comes,  and  thus  for  awhile  all  is  sereen.  But  the 
collapse  is  shore  to  cum  sooner  or  later,  and  the  children  ain't  to 
blame  for  it.  Sumtimes  when  I  ruminate  upon  the  meanness  of  man- 
kind I  wish  the  children  never  got  grown,  for  they  don't  get  mean  or 
foolish  until  they  do.  Just  think  what  a  sweet  time  of  it  old  mother 
Eve  and  Mrs.  Commodore  Noah,  and  aunt  Methusaler  had  with  thirty 
or  forty  of  'em  wearin'  bibs  and  aperns  until  they  were  fifty  years  old, 
toggin'  along  after  their  daddies  until  they  were  a  hundred.  I  don't 
think  old  father  Woodruff  could  have  stood  that.  When  a  man  who 
ain't  no  yearlin'  gits  married,  and  ten  or  a  dozen  of  'em  cum  right 
straight  along  in  a  row,  and  by  the  time  he  gets  on  the  piazza,  tired 
and  grunty,  they  begin  to  climb  all  over  him  and  under  him  and 
betwixt  him,  and  on  the  back  of  his  chair  and  the  top  of  his  head,  it's 
a  little  more  than  his  venerable  nature  can  stand.  On  such  occasions, 
it  ain't  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  gently  shakes  himself  aloose  and 


152  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

exclaims,  "Lord  have  mercy  upon  me."  But,  then,  the  like  of  thiis 
must  be  endured.  'Tis  a  part  of  the  bargain,  implied  if  not  expressed, 
as  the  lawyers  say,  and  no  man  ought  to  dodge  it.  Humor  'em,  play 
boss  and  frolic  with  'em,  wash  'em,  undress  'em,  tell  'em  stories  about 
Jack  and  the  bean  stalk,  and  what  you  done  when  you  was  a  little 
boy;  scratch  their  backs  and  put  'em  to  bed,  and  if  they  can't  sleep, 
get  up  with  'em  away  in  the  night,  and  nod  around  in  your  night- 
gown until  they  can.  Let  them  trot  after  you  a  heap  in  week  days 
and  all  day  of  a  Sunday,  and  don't  try  to  shirk  off  the  trouble  and 
the  responsiblity  on  the  good  woman  who  bore  'em.  Solomon  says: 
"Children  are  the  chief  end  of  man,  and  the  glory  of  his  declining 
years,"  and  raisin'  of  'em  is  the  biggest  business  I  know  of  in  this  life, 
and  the  most  responsible  in  the  life  to  come. 

When  a  man  begins  to  get  along  in  years  he  gradually  changes 
from  being  a  king  in  his  family  to  a  patriarch.  He  is  more  tender 
and  kind  to  his  offspring,  and  instead  of  ruling  them,  the  first  thing 
he  knows  they  are  ruling  him.  My  youngest  children  and  my  grand- 
children just  run  over  me  now,  and  it  takes  more  than  half  my 
time  to  keep  up  with  'em,  and  find  out  where  they  are  and  what  they 
are  doing.  It  rains  most  every  day,  and  the  weeds  and  grass  are 
always  wet,  and  the  children  and  the  dogs  track  mud  all  over  the  house. 
We  can't  keep  'em  in  and  we  can't  keep  'em  out.  The  boys  have  got 
traps  set  in  the  swamp,  and  are  obliged  to  go  to  'em  every  fifteen  min- 
utes, and  if  they  catch  a  bird  it's  as  big  a  thing  as  killin'  an  elefant. 
They  built  a  brick  furnace  in  the  back  yard,  and  have  been  cookin'  on 
it  for  two  days,  bakin'  hoe-cakes,  and  fryin'  eggs,  and  boilin'  coffee, 
and  their  afSicted  mother  has  mighty  near  surrendered ;  for  she  can't 
keep  a  skillet,  nor  a  spoon,  nor  a  knife,  nor  a  plate  in  the  kitchen, 
and  so  she  tried  to  kick  the  furnace  over,  and  now  goes  about  limpm' 
w^ith  a  sore  toe.  Some  of  the  older  ones  have  found  a  chalk  quarry 
in  a  ditch,  and  taken  a  notion  to  drawin'  and  sculpture,  and  made 
pictures  of  dogs  and  chickens  and  snakes  all  around  the  house  on  the 
outside;  and  while  the  good  mother  was  cookin'  the  two  youngest  ones 
chalked  over  the  inside  as  good  as  they  could.  The  mantel-piece,  and 
jams,  and  doors,  and  beadsteads,  and  sewiu'  machine,  and  wmdow-glass 
were  all  ring-streaked  and  striked,  and  as  I  couldeut  do  justice  to  the 
subject  myself,  I  waited  for  reinforcements.  When  the  maternal 
ancestor  appeared,  I  was  a  peepiu'  through  the  crack  of  the  door.     She 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  153 

paused  upon  the  threshold  like  an  an  actov  playing  high  tragedy  in  a 
theater.  "Merciful  fathers!"  then  a  long  and  solem  paus.  "Was 
there  ever  such  a  set  upon  the  face  of  the  earth?  What  shall  I  do? 
Ain't  it  enough  to  run  anybody  distracted?  Here  I  have  worked  and 
worked  to  make  this  old  house  look  decent,  and  now  look  at  it!  I've 
a  good  mind  to  wring  your  little  necks  for  you.  Did  ever  a  mother 
have  such  a  time  as  I  have — can't  leave  me  one  minit  that  they  ain't 
into  mischief,  and  it's  been  the  same  thing  over  and  over  and  over 
with  all  of  'em  for  the  last  twenty-nine  years.  I'd  rather  been  an  old 
maid  a  thousand  times  over.  I  wish  there  wasn't  a  child  in  the  Avorld 
— yes,  I  do!"  (Looks  at  'em  mournfully  for  a  minute.)  "Come 
here,  Jessie,  you  little  pale-faced  darling.  Mamma  ain't  mad  with 
you;  no,  you're  just  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world;  and  poor  little 
Carl's  broken  finger  makes  my  heart  ache  every  time  I  look  at  it.  He 
did  have  the  sweetest  little  hand  before  that  boy  mashed  it  all  to 
pieces  with  his  maul;  and  there's  that  great  scar  on  his  head,  where 
the  brick  fell  on  him,  and  another  over  his  eye,  where  he  fell  on  the 
hatchet.  I  wonder  if  I  ever  will  raise  you  poor  little  things ;  you  look 
like  little  orphans;  take  your  chalk  and  mark  some  more,  if  you  want 
to."  When  I  came  in  she  was  a  helpin'  'em  make  a  bob-tail  dog  on 
the  closet  door.  "I've  found  your  old  torn  cat,"  said  I;  "Carl  had 
him  fastened  up  in  that  nail  keg  that's  got  a  hen's  nest  in  it."  "Why, 
"Carl,  what  upon  earth  did  you  put  the  cat  in  there  for?"  "Why, 
mamma,  he's  a  settin,  and  I  wanted  him  to  lay  some  little  kittens. 
Me  and  Jessie  wants  some  kittens." 

These  little  chaps  ride  the  horses  and  colts  over  the  meadow  and 
pasture,  and  make  the  sheep  jump  the  big  branch,  and  they  go  in  a 
washing  two  or  three  times  a  day,  and  they  climb  the  grape  arbor  and 
the  apple  trees  and  stuff  their  craws  full  of  fruit  and  trash,  and  they 
can  tell  whether  a  watermelon  is  ripe  or  green,  jor  they  plug  it  to  see. 
and  every  one  of  'em  has  got  a  sling  shot  and  my  pigeons  are  always 
on  the  wing,  and  the  other  day  I  found  one  of  the  finest  young  pullets 
laying  dead  with  a  hole  in  her  side,  and  all  the  satisfaction  I  can  get 
is  I  dident  mean  to  do  it,  or  I  won't  do  it  any  more,  or  I  dident  do  it 
at  all.  Jcsso.  It's  most  astonishing  how  the  little  rascals  can  shoot 
Avith  their  slings,  and  now  I  don't  believe  it  was  a  miracle  at  all  that 
made  David  plump  old  Goliah  in  the  forehead,  for  these  boys  can 
plump  a  jaybird  nov»-  at  40  yards,  and  we  have  had  to  take  all  tlieir 


154  The  Farm  and  The  Firesidh. 

weapons  away  to  protect  the  birds  and  poultry.  Sometimes  I  get  mad 
and  rip  up  and  round  like  I  was  going  to  do  something  desperate,  but 
Mrs.  Arp  comes  a-slipping  along  and  begins  to  tell  how  they  dident 
mean  any  harm,  and  they  are  just  like  all  other  boys,  and  wants  to 
know  if  I  dident  do  them  sort  of  things  when  I  was  a  boy.  Well, 
that's  a  fact — I  did — and  I  got  a  lickin'  for  it,  too.  You  see,  I  was  one 
of  the  oldest  boys,  and  they  always  catch  it,  but  the  youngest  one  never 
gets  a  lickin',  for  by  the  time- he  comes  along  the  old  man  has  mellowed 
down  and  wants  a  pet.  The  older  children  have  married  and  gone, 
and  the  old  folks  feel  sorter  like  they  have  been  throwed  oft  for  some- 
body no  kin  to  'em,  and  so  they  twine  around  those  that  are  left  all 
the  closer,  but  by-and-by  they  grow  up,  too,  and  leave  them,  and  it's 
pitiful  to  see  the  good  old  couple  bereft  of  their  children  and  living 
alone  in  their  glory.  Then  is  the  time  that  grandchildren  find  a  wel- 
come in  the  old  family  homestead,  for  as  Solomon  saith,  the  glory  of 
an  old  man  is  his  children's  children.  Then  is  the  time  that  the  little 
chaps  of  the  second  and  third  generation  love  to  escape  from  their 
well  ruled  home,  and  for  awhile  find  refuge  and  freedom  and  frolic  at 
grandpa's.  A  child  without  a  grandpa  and  a  grandma  can  never  have 
its  share  of  happiness.  I'm  sorry  for  'em.  Blessings  on  the  good  old 
people,  the  venerable  grand-parents  of  the  land,  the  people  with  good 
old  honest  ways  and  simple  habits  and  limited  desires,  who  indulge  in 
no  folly,  who  hanker  after  no  big  thing,  but  live  along  serene  and 
covet  nothing  but  the  happiness  of  their  children  and  their  children's 
children.  I  said  to  a  good  old  mother  not  long  ago:  "Well,  I  hear 
that  Anna  is  to  be  married."  "Yes,  sir,"  said  she,  smiling  sorrow- 
fully, "I  don't  know  what  I  will  do.  The  last  daughter  I've  got  is 
going  to  leave  me.  I've  nursed  her  and  petted  her  all  her  life,  and  I 
kinder  thought  she  was  mine  and  would  always  be  mine,  but  she's  run 
oft"  after  a  feller  she's  no  kin  to  in  the  world,  and  who  never  did  do  a 
thing  for  her  but  give  her  a  ring  and  a  book  or  two  and  a  little  French 
candy  now  and  then,  and  it  does  look  so  strange  and  unreasonable.  I 
couldent  understand  it  at  all  if — if  I  hadent  done  the  same  thing 
mysel'f  a  long  time  ago,"  and  she  kept  knitting  away  with  a  smile  and 
a  tear  upon  her  motherly  face. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  slander  these  little  chaps  that  keep  us  so  busy 
looking  after  them,  for  there  is  no  meanness  in  their  mischief,  and  if 
they  take  liberties  it  is  because  we  let  'em.     Mrs.  Arp  says  they  are 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  155> 

just  too  sweet  to  five,  and  is  always  narrating  some  of  their  smart  say- 
ings. Well,  tliey  are  mighty  smart,  for  they  know  exactly  how  to  get 
everything  and  do  everything  they  want,  for  they  know  how  to  manage 
her,  and  they  know  that  she  manages  me,  and  that  settles  it.  A  man 
is  the  head  of  the  house  about  some  things,  and  about  some  other 
things  he  is  only  next  to  head,  if  he  ain't  foot.  A  man  can  punish 
his  children,  but  it's  always  advisable  to  make  an  explanation  in  due 
time  and  let  his  wife  know  what  he  did  it  for,  because  you  see  they 
are  her  children  shore  enough,  and  she  knows  and  feels  it.  The  pain 
and  trouble,  the  nursing  and  night  watching  have  all  been  hers.  The 
washing  and  dressing,  and  mending,  and  patching — tieing  up  fingers 
and  toes,  and  sympathizing  with  'em  in  all  their  great  big  little  troubles 
all  foils  to  her  while  the  father  is  tending  to  his  farm,  or  his  store,  or 
his  office,  or  friends,  or  may  be  to  his  billiard  table.  When  a  woman 
says  "this  is  my  child,"  it  carries  more  weight  and  more  meaning  than 
when  a  man  says  it,  and  I've  not  got  much  respect  for  a  law  that  will 
give  a  man  the  preference  of  ownership  just  because  he  is  a  man.  I 
remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  a  sad,  pretty  woman  taught  school  in 
our  town,  and  she  had  a  sweet  little  girl  about  eight  years  old,  and 
one  day  a  man  came  there  for  the  child  and  brought  a  lawyer  with 
him,  and  the  mother  was  almost  distracted,  and  all  of  us  boys — big 
and  little — got  rocks  and  sticks  and  thrash  poles  and  hid  the  little  girl 
up  in  the  cupalo,  and  when  the  sheriff  came  we  attaoked  him  like 
killing  snakes  or  fighting  yaller  jackets,  and  we  rui^^ini  off,  and 
when  he  came  back  with  more  help,  we  run  'em  all  off,  and  the 
man  never  got  his  child,  and  I  can  say  now  that  the  soldiers  who 
whipped  the  yankees  at  Bull  Run  were  not  half  so  proud  of  their 
victory  as  we  were,  though  I  found  out  afterwards  that  the  sheriff  was 
Avilling  to  be  whipped,  for  he  was  on  the  side  of  the  mother  and  didn't 
want  to  find  the  child  no  how.  But  the  world  is  getting  kinder  than 
it  used  to  be — kinder  to  women  and  to  the  poor  and  the  dependent, 
and  kinder  to  brutes.  Away  up  in  New  England  they  used  to  drown 
women  for  being  witches,  but  they  don't  now.  Well,  they  do  bewitch 
a  man  powerfully  sometimes,  that's  a  fact,  but  if  any  drowning  is 
done  he  drowns  himself  because  he  can't  get  the  woman  he  wants  and 
live  under  her  witching  all  the  time.  But  a  man  is  still  the  head  of 
the  house  and  always  will  be,  I  reckon,  for  it's  according  to  Scripture. 
He  has  got  a  natural  right  to  run  the  machine  and  keep  up  the  sup- 


156  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

plies,  and  if  be  always  has  money  when  the  good  wife  wants  it  and 
doesn't  wait  for  her  to  ask  for  it  but  makes  her  take  it  as  a  favor  to 
him,  then  he  is  a  successful  husband  and  peace  reigns  supreme. 
Jesso.  When  there  is  money  in  the  till  a  man  can  sit  in  his  piazza 
with  his  feet  on  the  banisters  and  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace.  A 
woman  loves  money  for  its  uses.  She  never  hoards  it  or  hides  it  away 
like  a  man — and  when  I  used  to  be  a  merchant  I  thought  there  was 
no  goodlier  combination  in  all  nature  than  a  new  stock  of  dry  goods 
and  a  pretty  woman  in  the  store  with  a  well  filled  purse  in  her  pocket. 
-Jesso. 


% 


The  Faum  and  The  Fhieside.  157 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


Making  Sausage. 

Hog  killing  is  over  at  last.  We  had  about  made  up  our  minds 
to  Idll  one  at  a  time  as  we  needed  them  and  not  cure  any  for  bacon, 
but  the  weather  got  right  and  the  moon  was  on  the  increase,  and  so 
we  slayed  them.  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  moon  myself,  but 
there  are  some  old  family  superstitions  that  the  meat  will  shrink  in  the 
pot  if  the  moon  is  on  the  wane  when  you  kill  it.  The  new  moon  is 
quite  level  this  time,  which  is  a  sure  sign  that  it  will  rain  a  good  deal 
this  month,  or  that  it  won't.  We  have  pretty  well  disposed  of  tliis 
greasy  business.  The  little  boys  had  a  good  time  frying  liver  on  the 
hot  rocks  and  roasting  tails  in  the  ashes  and  blowing  up  balloons,  and 
now  if  we  had  a  few  darkies  to  cook  up  the  heads  and  clean  the  feet 
and  fix  up  the  skins  for  sausages  and  make  a  nice  lot  of  souse,  we 
could  live  like  princes,  but  it's  troublesome  work  and  costs  more  than 
it  comes  to  if  we  have  to  do  it  ourselves. 

I  am  very  fond  of  sausage — home  made  sausage  such  as  Mrs.  Arp 
knows  how  to  make,  and  so  she  delicately  informed  me  that  the  meat 
was  all  chopped  and  ready  for  the  machine,  and  said  something  about 
my  everyday  clothes  and  one  of  her  old  aprons.  She  further 
remarked  that  when  it  was  all  ground  up  she  would  come  down  and 
show  me  how  much  salt  and  pepper  and  sage  to  put  in  and  how  to 
mix  it  all  up  together.  Well,  I  didn't  mind  the  machine  business  at 
all,  but  I  remembered  seeing  her  work  mighty  hard  over  that  mixing 
of  the  salt  and  pepper  and  sage,  and  frying  a  little  mess  on  the  stove 
and  tasting  it,  and  then  putting  in  more  salt  and  work  it  over  again, 
and  cooking  another  mess  and  tasting  it  again,  and  then  putting  in 
more  pepper  and  more  sage,  and  after  the  job  was  all  over,  heard  her 
declare  there  wasn't  enough  of  anything  in  it,  and  so  I  conjured  up  a 
bran  new  idea,  and  sprinkled  about  a  hatful  of  salt  and  a  quart  of 
black  pepper  and  a  pint  of  cayenne  and  all  the  sage  that  was  on  the 
premises  all  over  the  meat  before  I  ground  it.     Then  I  put  it  through 


158  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

the  macliine,  and  cooked  and  tasted  it  myself.  Well,  it  was  a  little 
hot — that's  a  fact — and  a  little  salty,  and  a  right  smart  sagey,  but  it 
•was  good,  and  a  little  of  it  satisfied  a  body  quicker  than  a  good  deal 
of  the  ordinary  kind,  and  the  new  plan  saved  a  power  of  mixing.  I 
took  a  nice  little  cake  of  it  up  to  Mrs.  Arp  to  try,  which  she  did  with 
some  surprise  and  misgiving.  By  the  time  she  had  sneezed  four  times 
and  coughed  the  plate  out  of  her  lap,  she  quietly  asked  me  if  it  was 
all  like  that.  "All,"  said  I,  solemnly.  "Do  you  like  it?"  said  she. 
■"Pretty  well,  I  think,"  said  I;  "I  wanted  to  save  you  trouble,  and 
maybe  I  have  got  it  a  leetle  too  strong."  She  never  replied,  but  the 
next  day  she  made  up  the  little  cloth  bags  and  stuffed  'em  and  hung 
all  overhead  in  the  kitchen,  and  remarked  as  she  left,  "Now,  chil- 
dren, that's  your  pa's  sausage.  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  stayed  away 
another  day." 

Mrs.  Arp  has  been  mighty  busy,  as  usual — always  a  working,  for 
the  house  will  get  dirty,  and  the  children's  clothes  will  wear  out,  and 
it's  clean  up  and  sew,  and  patch,  and  darn,  and  sew  on  buttons ;  and 
it's  the  same  old  thing  day  after  day  and  week  after  week  ;  and  the  lit- 
tle chaps  have  to  be  watched  all  day  and  washed  every  night ;  and 
their  shoe-strings  get  in  a  hard  knot,  and  it's  a  worry  to  get  it  undone. 
They  wander  over  the  hill  and  play  in  the  branch,  or  frolic  in  the 
barn  loft,  or  slip  oft  to  Cobe's ;  and  I  can  hear  a  sweet  motherly  voice 
about  forty  times  a  day,  as  she  steps  to  the  door  and  calls:  "Carl — 
you  Carl !  Jessie,  Jessie  e-e !  Where  upon  earth  have  those  chil- 
dren gone  to?  I  will  just  have  to  tie  the  little  wretches,  or  put  a 
block  and  chain  to  them."  One  day  she  caught  me  laughing  at  her 
anxiety,  and  I  knew  she  didn't  like  it,  for  she  said:  "Never  mind, 
William,  some  of  these  days  those  children  will  come  home  drowned 
in  the  creek,  or  carried  off  by  the  gypsies,  and  you  won't  laugh  then." 
AVhen  she  succeeds  in  getting  them  home  she  places  her  arms  akimbo, 
and  Avith  a  look  of  unutterable  despair  gazes  at  them  and  exclaims : 
"Merciful  fathers!  did  ever  a  poor  mother  have  such  children? — feet 
right  wet,  shoes  all  muddy ;  and  there — another  hole  in  the  knee  of 
his  pants — and  Jessie  has  torn  her  apron  nearly  off  of  her.  Bring  me 
a  switch.  I  will  not  stand  it,  for  it's  sew  and  patch  and  worry  for- 
ever. I  could  hardly  put  those  shoes  on  you  this  morning,  for  they 
have  been  wet  and  dried,  and  wet  and  dried  until  they  are  as  hard  as 
boards,  and  your  pa  won't  get  you  any  new  ones ;  and  your  stockings 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside,  159 

are  worn  out  and  all  wet  besides ;  aud  the  dipthcria  is  all  over  the 
country,  and  it's  a  wonder  you  don't  take  it  aud  die.  Come  into  the 
fire,  you  poor  little  orphans,  and  warm  your  feet.  You  may  pop 
some  corn,  and  here's  some  apples  for  you.  Don't  you  want  some  din- 
ner, my  darlings  ?  " 

The  poet  hath  said  that  "a  baby  in  the  house  is  a  well  spring  of 
pleasure."  There  is  a  bran  new  one  here  now,  the  first  in  eight  years, 
and  it  has  raised  a  powerful  commotion.  It's  not  our  baby,  exactly,  but 
it's  in  the  line  of  descent,  aud  Mrs.  Arp  takes  on  over  it  all  the  same  as 
she  used  to  when  she  was  regularly  in  the  business.  I  thought  maybe 
she  had  forgotten  how  to  nurse  'em  and  talk  to  'em,  but  she  is  singing 
the  same  old  familiar  songs  that  have  sweetened  the  dreams  of  half  a 
score,  and  she  blesses  the  little  eyes  and  the  sweet  little  mouth  aud 
uses  the  same  infantile  language  that  nobody  but  babies  understand. 
For  she  says,  "turn  here  to  it's  dandmudder,"  and  "bess  its  'ittle 
heart,"  and  talks  about  its  sweet  little  footsy-tootsies  and  holds  it  up 
to  the  window  to  see  the  wagons  go  by  and  the  wheels  going  rouny- 
pouny,  and  now  my  liberty  is  curtailed,  for  as  I  go  stamping  around 
wth  my  heavy  farm  shoes  she  shakes  her  ominous  finger  at  me  just 
like  she  used  to  and  says,  "Don't  you  see  the  baby  is  asleep?"  And 
so  I  have  to  tip-toe  around,  and  ever  and  anon  she  wants  a  little  fire, 
or  some  hot  water,  or  some  catnip,  for  the  baby  is  a-crying  and  shorely 
has  got  the  colic.  The  doors  have  to  be  shut  now  for  fear  of  a  draft 
of  air  on  the  baby,  and  a  little  hole  in  the  window  pane  about  as  big 
as  a  dime  had  to  be  patched,  and  I  have  to  hunt  up  a  passel  of  kin- 
lings  every  night  and  put  'em  where  they  will  be  handy,  and  they 
have  sent  me  off  to  another  room  where  the  baby  can't  hear  me  snore, 
and  all  things  considered,  the  baby  is  running  the  machine,  aud  the 
well  spring  of  pleasure  is  the  center  of  space.  A  grandmother  is  a 
wonderful  helj)  and  a  great  comfort  at  such  a  time  as  this,  for  what 
does  a  young  mother,  with  her  first  child,  know  about  colic  and 
thrash,  and  hives  and  hiccups,  and  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  faith  to 
dose  'em  with  sut  tea  and  catnip,  and  lime  water,  and  paregoric,  and 
soothing  syrup,  and  som times  with  all  these  the  child  gets  woi'se,  and 
if  it  gets  better  I've  always  had  a  curiosity  to  know  which  remedy  it 
was  that  did  the  work.  Children  born  of  healthy  parents  can  stand 
a  power  of  medicine  and  get  over  it,  for  after  the  cry  comes  the  sleep, 
and  sleep  is  a  wonderful  restorer.     Rock  'em  awhile  in  the  cradle, 


160  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

then  take  'em  up  and  jolt  'em  a  little  on  the  knee  and  then  turn  'em 
over  and  jolt  'em  on  the  other  side,  and  then  give  'em  some  sugar  in 
a  rag  and  after  awhile  they  will  go  to  sleep  and  let  the  poor  mother 
rest.  There  is  no  patent  on  this  business,  no  way  of  raising  'em  all 
the  same  way,  but  it  is  trouble,  trouble  from  the  start,  and  nobody 
but  a  mother  knows  how  much  trouble  it  is.  A  man  ought  to  be 
mighty  good  just  for  his  mother's  sake,  if  nothing  else,  for  there  is  no 
toil  or  trial  like  nursing  and  caring  for  a  little  child,  and  there  is  no 
grief  so  great  as  a  mother's  if  all  her  care  and  anxiety  is  wasted  on  an 
ungrateful  child. 

It  looks  like  we  will  be  obleeged  to  import  a  doctor  in  the  settle- 
ment. Fact  is  we  are  obleeged  to  have  a  doctor — not  that  one  is 
needed  at  all,  but  just  to  quiet  the  female  hystericks  when  any  little 
thing  happens.  Since  we've  lived  here  I've  had  to  send  five  miles  on 
the  run  for  a  doctor  two  times  just  to  keep  down  the  family  hystericks. 
Both  times  the  patient  recovered  before  the  doctor  arrived,  but  then 
it  was  such  a  comfort  to  have  him  around  and  hear  him  say  it  is  all 
right,  and  see  him  measure  out  a  little  yaller  powder.  It  was  only 
day  before  yesterday  that  Ralph  put  our  little  Carl  on  the  old  mare- 
and  was  leading  her  along  at  the  rate  of  half  a  mile  an  hour,  when 
the  little  chap  took  a  notion  to  faU  off  and  as  soon  as  the  wind  of  it 
got  to  headquarters,  there  was  a  wild  female  rush  to  the  scene  of 
great  disaster.  "Oh  mercy,  oh  the  dear  child.  He's  killed.  I 
know  he's  killed,  poor  little  darling.  Oh  my  child,  my  child.  Ralph, 
I'll  whip  you  for  this  if  I  live.  Oh  my  precious.  Just  look  at 
that  place  on  his  little  head.  Children,  where  is  your  pa?  Send  for 
the  doctor.  Oh  mercy — what  did  we  ever  move  out  here  for,  five 
miles  from  a  d6ctor  ?"  I  was  mighty  busy  planting  peas  and  so  forth 
in  my  garden,  but  I  snuffed  the  commotion  in  the  air,  and  in  a  few 
moments  found  'em  all  bringing  the  boy  to  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Arp 
and  the  girls  talked  so  fast  and  took  on  so  I  couldent  find  out  what 
had  happened  to  him.  Finally  I  got  the  bottom  facts  from  Ralph, 
the  reckless — the  butt  end  of  all  complaints — the  promise  of  a  thous- 
and whippings  with  nary  one  performed.  I  looked  in  vain  for 
wounds  and  bruises  and  dislocations.  ' '  The  boy  is  not  seriously  hurt," 
said  I — "  he  is  badly  scared  and  you  are  making  him  worse  by  all 
this  commotion — what  he  wants  is  rest  and  sleep." 

"Oh,  never,"  said  my  wife,  "it  won't  do  to  let  him  sleep — when  the 


The  Farm  and  The  Fhieside.  161 

brain  is  hurt  sleep  is  the  very  worst  thing — it  brings  on  coma  and  coma 
is  next  thing  to  death — we  must  not  let  him  sleep."  I  was  pretty  well 
aroused  by  this  time  and  said,  "he  shall  sleep,"  and  turned  everybody 
out  but  Mrs.  Arp  and  she  acquiesced  in  my  determination  and  the 
boy  slept.  He  slept  all  night  and  Mrs.  Arp  sat  beside  the  bed  and 
watched.  He  was  all  right  in  the  morning  and  ready  for  another 
ride. 


162  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsmE. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


The  Old  Trunk. 

The  old  trunk  was  open.  Away  down  in  its  mysterious  recesses 
Mrs.  Arp  was  searching  for  something,  and  as  I  sat  in  the  other  corner 
with  my  little  table  and  pen  I  watched  her  as  she  laid  the  ancient 
relics  on  a  chair  and  unfolded  first  one  and  then  another  and  looked 
at  them  so  earnestly,  and  then  folded  them  up  again.  "What  are 
you  hunting  for,  my  dear?"  said  I.  "Oh,  nothing  much,"  said  she; 
"I  was  just  looking  over  these  little  dresses  to  see  if  there  was  any- 
thing that  would  do  for  the  little  grandchildren.  Here  is  a  pretty 
dress.  This  dress  cost  me  many  a  careful  stitch.  All  these  plaits 
were  made  by  my  hand,  my  own  hand.  There  is  very  little  such  work 
done  now,  for  we  had  no  sewing  machines  then,  and  it  took  a  long, 
long  time.  This  embroidery  was  beautiful  then,  and  it  is  pretty  yet. 
Do  you  remember  when  the  first  daguerrean  came  to  our  town  to  take 
pictures?  Well,  Hattie  wore  this  dress  when  her  picture  was  taken, 
and  I  thought  she  was  the  sweetest  little  thing  in  the  world,  and  so 
did  you,  and  she  was.  Since  then  we  have  had  ambrotypes  and  pho- 
tographs and  porcelain  pictures,  and  I  don't  know  what  all;  but  that 
little  daguerreotype  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  anything  since,  and 
it  is  pretty  now.  Let  me  see — that  was  twenty-five  years  ago,  and 
now  I  think  this  same  dress  will  look  right  pretty  on  Hattie's  child. 
And  here  is  one  that  our  first  boy  was  christened  in,  and  there  is  no 
machine  work  about  it  either.  That  was  more  than  thirty  years  ago, 
and  now  there  are  four  grandchildren  at  his  house,  and  three  more  at 
another  one's  house,  and  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  the  poor 
little  things,  but  I  reckon  the  Lord  Avill  provide  for  them.  And  here 
is  a  little  garment  that  Jennie  made.  Poor  Jennie,  she  had  a  troubled 
life,  but  she  is  in  heaven  now,  and  I'll  save  this  for  Pet.  She  will 
prize  it  because  her  mother  made  it.  And  here  is  a  piece  of  my 
wedding  di'ess — do  you  remember  it?  I  know  you  said  then  that  I 
looked  like  an  angel  in  it,  but  my  wings  have  dropped  ofi^  long  ago. 


The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside.  163 

and  now  I'm  only  a  poor  old  woman,  a  faded  flower,  an  overworked 
mother,  ten  living  children  and  three  more  up  yonder,  and  I  will  be 
there,  too,  I  hope,  before  long,  for  I'm  getting  tired,  very  tired,  and  it 
seems  to  me  I  would  like  to  be  nursed,  nursed  by  my  mother,  and 
petted  like  she  used  to  pet  me  in  the  long,  long  ago.  And  here  is  a 
pair  of  little  baby  shoes,  and  the  little  darling  who  wore  them  is  in 
the  grave,  but  he  is  better  off  now,  and  I  wouldent  call  him  back  if  I 
could.  Sometimes  I  want  to  feel  sad,  and  I  rummage  over  these  old 
things.  There  is  not  much  here  now,  for  every  little  while  I  have  to 
get  out  something  to  mend  with  or  patch  or  make  over  again.  I  wish 
you  would  go  and  see  what  Carl  and  Jessie  are  doing;  down  at  the 
branch  I  reckon,  and  feet  all  wet,  and  they  have  both  got  dreadful 
colds.     I  can't  keep  them  away  from  that  branch." 

"Dident  you  play  in  the  branch,  my  dear,  when  you  were  a  child?" 
said  I.  "  Yes,"  said  she  mournfully,  "but  nothing  couldent  hurt  me 
then;  we  were  not  raised  so  delicate  in  those  days.  You  know  I  used 
to  ride  to  the  plantation,  twelve  miles,  and  back  again  in  a  day  and 
brmg  a  bag  of  fruit  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle,  but  the  girls  couldent 
do  it  now.  They  can  go  to  a  party  in  a  buggy  and  dance  half  the 
night,  but  that  is  all  excitement,  and  they  are  not  fit  for  anything  the 
next  day.  We  dident  have  any  dances — ^hardly  ever — we  went  to  the 
country  wedding  sometimes.  You  remember  we  went  to  James  Dun- 
lap's  wedding,  when  he  married  Rebecca  Sammons.  That  was  a  big 
frolic — an  old-fashioned  frolic.  Everybody  was  there  from  all  the 
naborhood,  and  there  were  more  turkeys  and  roast  pig  and  cake  than 
I  ever  saw,  and  we  played  everything  we  could  think  of.  Rebecca 
was  pretty  then,  but  poor  woman — she  has  had  a  thousand  children, 
too,  just  like  myself,  and  I  reckon  she  is  faded  too,  and  tired."  "But 
Jim  Dunlap  hasn't  faded,"  said  I.  "I  see  him  when  I  go  to  Atlanta, 
and  he  is  big  and  fat  and  merry— looks  a  little  like  old  David  Davis." 
"Oh,  yes,  of  course  he  does,"  said  Mrs.  Arp.  "The  men  don't 
know  anything  about  care  an  anxiety  and  sleepless  nights.  It  is  a 
wonder  to  me  they  die  at  all."  "But  I  have  helped  you  all  I  could, 
my  dear,"  said  I,  "and  you  see  it's  telling  on  me.  Look  at  these  silver 
hairs  and  these  wrinkles  and  crows-feet,  and  my  back  hurts  ever  and 
anon,  and  this  rainy,  bad  weather  gives  me  rheumatism,  but  you  haven't 
a  gray  hair  and  hardly  a  seam  on  your  alabaster  forehead.  AVhy,  you 
will  outlive  me,  too,  and  maybe  there  will  be  a  rich  widower  stepping 


164  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

around  here  in  my  shoes  and  you  will  have  a  fine  carriage  and  a  pair 
of  beautiful  bay  horses,  and — " 

""William,  I  told  you  to  go  after  Carl  and  Jessie." 

"If  Vanderbilt's  wife  should  die  and  he  could  accidentally  see  you," 
saia  I,  "after  I'm  gone,  there's  no  telling — " 

"Well,  go  along  now  and  find  the  children,  and  when  you  come 
back  I'll  listen  to  your  foolishness;  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  die  if  I 
can  help  it,  for  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  us  all.  Yes,  you 
have  helped  me,  I  know,  and  been  a  great  comfort  and  did  the  best 
you  could — most  of  the  time;  yes,  most  of  the  time — and  I  might  have 
done  worse,  and  you  must  nurse  me  now  and  pet  me,  for  I  am  getting 
childish."  "And  you  must  pet  me,  too,"  said  I.  "Oh,  of  course  I 
will,"  said  she;  "am  I  not  always  petting  you?  Now,  go  along  after 
the  children  before  we  both  get  to  crying  and  have  a  scene ;  and  I  wish 
you  would  see  if  the  buff  cochin  hens  have  hatched,  in  the  hen  house." 
"She  has  been  setting  about  fourteen  weeks,"  said  I,  "but  she  is  get- 
ting old,  and  these  old  mothers  are  slow,  mighty  slow." 

I  went  after  the  children,  and  sure  enough  they  were  fishing  in  the 
spring  branch,  and  their  shoes  were  wet  and  muddy,  and  they  were 
bare-headed,  and  I  marched  them  up  tenderly,  and  Mrs.  Arp  set  them 
down  by  the  fire  and  dried  their  shoes,  and  got  them  some  more  stock- 
ings, and  then  opened  their  little  morning  school.  How  patiently 
these  old-fashioned  mothers  work  and  worry  over  the  little  things  of 
domestic  life.  Day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  they  labor  and 
watch  and  watch  and  wait,  while  the  fathers  are  contriving  some  big 
thing  to  keep  up  the  family  supplies.  Parents  are  very  much  like 
chickens.  The  old  hen  will  set  and  set  and  starve,  and  when  the 
brood  comes  will  go  scratching  for  worms  and  bugs  as  hard  as  she  can 
and  be  always  clucking  and  looking  out  for  hawks,  but  the  old  rooster 
will  strut  around  and  notice  the  little  chickens  with  a  paternal  pride, 
and  when  he  scratches  up  a  bug  makes  a  big  fuss  over  it  and  calk 
them  with  a  flourish,  and  eats  it  himself  just  before  they  get  there. 

That  was  a  mighty  good  talk  in  your  last  Sunday's  paper  about 
sleep,  and  letting  folks  sleep  until  nature  waked  'em.  He  was  a  smart 
doctor  who  said  all  that,  and  he  said  it  well,  but  I  couldent  help  think- 
ing what  would  become  of  the  babies  if  the  mothers  dident  wake  until 
they  had  got  sleep  enough.  There  are  no  regular  hours  for  them. 
Job  speaketh  of  the  dark  watches  of  the  night  when  deep  sleep  falleth 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  165 

upon  a  man,  but  it  don't  fall  upon  a  weary  mother  with  a  fretful 
<;hild  when  it  is  cutting  its  front  teeth  and  wants  to  nurse  the  livelong 
night.  When  she  is  sleeping  she  is  awake,  and  when  she  is  waking 
she  is  half  asleep,  and  the  morning  brings  no  rest  or  refreshment,  and 
I  was  thinking,  too,  of  what  would  become  of  the  farm  if  the  boys 
were  not  waked  up  early  in  the  morning.  Not  many  boys  will  awake 
up  themselves,  and  they  must  be  called,  and  in  course  of  time  have 
habits  of  waking  forced  upon  'em.  A  family  that  sleep  late  will 
always  be  behind  with  farm  work.  I  do  not  believe  in  getting  up 
before  day  and  eating  breakfast  by  candle  light,  but  I  do  believe  in 
early  rising.  I  don't  know  how  long  my  children  would  sleep  if  I 
did  not  call  'em,  for  I  never  tried  it ;  but  I  don't  call  Mrs.  Arp,  of 
course  I  don't,  though  she  says  I  had  just  as  well,  for  I  stamp  around 
and  slam  the  doors  and  whistle  and  sing  until  there  is  no  more  sleep 
for  her.  She  wants  me  to  build  her  a  little  house  away  off  in  the 
garden,  where  she  can  sleep  enough  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  be 
always  calm  and  serene,  and  I  think  I  wUl. 


166  The  Fami  axd  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


The  Georgia  Colonel. 

Speaking  of  Georgia  colonels,  I  was  thinking  the  other  day  how- 
there  came  to  be  so  many  of  'em.  We  used  to  have  general  musters 
all  over  the  State  twice  a  year.  The  militia  were  ordered  out  to  he 
reviewed  by  the  commander-in-chief,  "which  "was  the  governor.  The 
constitution  required  him  to  review  'em,  and  as  he  couldn't  travel  all 
around  in  person,  he  had  to  do  it  by  proxy,  and  so  he  had  his  proxy 
in  every  county,  and  he  "was  called  the  governor's  aid-de-camp  with 
the  rank  of  colonel.  This  gave  the  governor  over  a  hundred  aid-de- 
camps, and  they  all  took  it  as  a  compliment  and  "wore  cockade  hats 
with  red  plumes,  and  epaulets,  and  long  brass  swords,  and  big  brass 
spurs,  and  pistols  in  their  holsters,  and  rode  up  and  down  the  lines  at 
a  gallop,  reviewing  the  meelish.  The  meelish  "were  in  a  double 
crooked  straight  line  in  a  great  big  field,  and  were  armed  with  shot- 
guns and  rifles,  and  muskets,  and  sticks,  and  corn-stalks,  and  thrash- 
poles,  and  umbrellas,  and  they  "were  standing  up  and  setting  down,  or 
on  the  squat,  or  playing  mumble  peg,  and  they  hollered  for  water 
half  their  time,  and  whiskey  the  other ;  and  when  the  colonel  and  his 
personal  staff  got  through  reviewing  he  halted  about  the  middle  of  the 
line  and  said,  "Shoulder  arms — right  face — march,"  and  then  the 
kettle  drums  rattled  and  the  fife  squeaked,  and  some  guns  went  oflf 
half  cocked,  and  the  meelish  shouted  awhile  and  were  disbanded  by 
the  captains  of  their  several  companies.  These  colonels  held  their 
rank  and  title  as  long  as  the  governor  held  his  oflice,  and  they  were 
expected  to  holler  hurrah  for  the  governor  on  all  proper  occasions,  and 
they  did  it.  If  the  governor  ran  again  and  was  defeated,  the  next 
governor  appointed  a  new  set  from  among  the  faithful,  and  the  old  set 
had  to  retn-e  from  the  field,  but  they  held  on  to  the  title.  For  a  great 
many  years  the  old  whigs  and  democrats  had  it  up  and  down,  in  and 
out,  'and  so  new  colonels  were  made  by  the  score  until  the  State  was- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  167 

chock  full  again.  They  had  a  general  muster  and  a  grand  review- 
once  lip  at  Lafayette,  and  Bob  Barry  lived  up  there  and  was  the  b-hoy 
of  the  town.  Bob  never  wore  shoes  or  a  hat  or  hardly  anything  else 
in  those  days,  and  he  had  petted  and  tamed  a  great  big  long  razor- 
backed hog,  and  could  ride  him  with  a  rope  bridle,  and  so  as  the  col- 
onel and  his  staff  came  galloping  down  the  lines  with  their  cockades 
and  plumes  and  glittering  swords.  Bob  suddenly  came  out  from  behind 
a  house  mounted  on  his  razor-back  hog,  and  a  paper  cap  with  a  tur- 
key feather  in  it  on  his  head,  and  a  pair  of  old  tongs  swinging  from 
his  suspenders,  and  some  spurs  on  his  bare-footed  heels,  and  he  fell  in 
just  behind  the  cavalcade,  and  got  the  hog  on  a  run,  and  scared  their 
horses,  and  the  whole  concern  ran  away  and  the  hog  after  'em,  and 
such  a  yell  and  such  an  uproar  was  never  heard  in  those  parts  or  any- 
where else.  The  hog  never  stopped  running  until  he  got  home,  when 
he  dismounted  and  took  to  the  woods  for  fear  of  consequences.  Bob 
is  running  a  Sunday-school  now,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  it  will  take  a 
good  deal  of  missionary  work  in  him  to  make  up  for  some  things  the 
Lafayette  people  tell  about. 

But  these  militia  musters  got  to  be  such  farces  that  the  legislature 
abolished  'em  about  thirty-five  years  ago,  though  they  couldent  abolish 
the  colonels.  When  the  war  broke  loose  most  of  'em  went  into  the 
army  and  got  reduced.  Many  a  peace  colonel  got  to  be  a  war  major 
or  a  captain,  or  even  a  high  private,  and  in  that  way  their  ranks  were 
thinned.  Our  governors,  however,  still  make  a  few  new  ones  as  often 
as.  they  are  elected,  and  so  the  peace  colonel  is  still  destined  to  live 
and  illustrate  the  good  old  State.  The  Georgia  majors  are  not  so 
numerous.  They  came  from  these  same  militia  musters,  for  every 
county  had  her  battalions  and  every  battalion  had  its  major.  But 
now  his  destiny  is  fixed.  There  are  no  more  majors  to  come,  and  the 
old  stock  is  passing  away.  I'm  glad  you  have  a  paper  in  your  town 
that  is  perpetuating  the  good  old  name,  for  the  time  was  in  the  good 
old  days  when  he  was  a  power  in  the  land — when  he,  too,  wore  epau- 
lets and  a  sword  and  marched  his  cohorts  up  the  hill  and  marched  'em 
down  again. 

After  the  muster  was  over  then  came  the  horse  swapping,  and  the 
horse  races,  and  the  pugilistic  exercises  in  the  town  in  front  of  the 
groceries.     No  pistols,  nor  knives,  nor  sticks  were  allowed,  but  the 


168  The  Fakm  and  The  FmEsmE. 

bojs  stripped  to  the  waist  and  went  at  it  with  nature's  weapons.  It 
was  short  work  and  quick  work  and  nobody  hurt  very  much,  though 
sometimes  Billy  Patterson  got  an  awful  lick.  These  fighting  boys  had 
no  cause  to  quarrel,  but  Kancy  SnifHe  Avanted  it  settled  as  to  who  was 
the  best  man  in  his  beat.     That  was  all. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  169 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


On  the  Old  Times,  Alexander  Stephens,  Etc. 

Two  cents — only  two  cents.  When  I  look  at  a  postage  stamp  it 
carries  me  away  back.  Back  to  the  time  when  my  father  was  post- 
master and  I  was  clerk,  and  had  to  make  up  the  mails  in  a  country 
town.  The  difference  between  now  and  then  shows  that  the  world's 
progress  in  this  department  is  hardly  excelled  in  any  other  branch  of 
improvement.  We  couldn't  bear  to  be  set  back  again  in  the  old  ways 
that  our  fathers  thought  were  pretty  good.  There  were  no  stamps 
and  no  envelopes  and  no  mucilage.  The  paper  was  folded  up  like  a 
thumbpaj)er,  and  one  side  slipped  in  the  other  and  sealed  with  a  wrap- 
per. The  little  schoolboys,  you  know,  had  to  use  thumb-papers  in 
their  spelling  books  to  keep  them  clean  where  their  dirty  thumbs  kept 
the  pages  open.  Girls  didn't  have  to  use  them,  for  they  were  nicer 
and  kept  their  hands  clean,  and  didn't  wear  out -the  leaves  by  the 
friction  of  their  fingers.  Boys  are  rough  things  any  how,  and  I  don't 
see  what  a  nice,  sweet,  pretty  girl  wants  with  one  of  'em.  Girls,  they 
eay,  are  made  of  sugar  and  spice  and  all  that's  nice,  but  boys  are 
made  of  snaps  and  snails  and  puppy  dogs'  tails.  Josephus  says,  that 
when  the  queen  of  Sheba  was  testing  Solomon's  wisdom,  she  had  fifty 
"boys  and  fifty  girls  all  dressed  alike  in  girls'  clothes  and  seated  around 
a  big  room,  and  asked  the  king  to  pick  out  the  boys  from  the  girls, 
and  he  called  for  a  basin  of  water  and  had  it  carried  around  to  each 
one  and  told  them  to  wash  their  hands.  The  girls  all  rolled  up  their 
sleeves  a  little  bit,  the  boys  just  sloshed  their  hands  in  any  way  and 
got  water  all  over  their  aprons,  and  so  the  king  spotted  every  mother's 
son  of  them. 

The  postage  used  to  be  regulated  by  the  distance  that  Uncle  Sam 
carried  the  letters.  It  was  12|-  cents  anywhere  in  the  state,  and  18f 
cents  to  Charleston,  and  25  cents  to  New  York.  It  was  never  pre- 
paid. A  man  could  afllict  another  with  a  pistareen  letter  that  wasent 
worth  five  cents.     A  pistareen,  you  know,  was  18|-  cents — that  is  a 


170  The  Farm  and  The  Flreside. 

sevenpence  and  a  thrip.  We  had  no  dimes  or  half  dimes.  The  dol- 
lars was  cut  up  into  eighths  instead  of  tenths.  When  a  countryman 
called  for  letters  and  got  one,  he  would  look  at  it  some  time  and  turn 
it  over  and  meditate  before  he  paid  for  it,  and  very  often  they  would 
say,  "where  did  this  letter  come  from?"  Well,  I  would  say,  for 
instance,  "it  came  from  Dahlonega — don't  you  see  Dahlonega  written 
up  on  the  corner ? "  Then  he  would  say,  "well,  I  reckon  it's  from 
Dick,  my  brother  Dick.  He  is  up  there  diggin'  gold.  Don't  yon 
reckon  it's  from  Dick?"  ."I  reckon  it  is,"  said  L  "Why  don't  you 
open  it  and  see ?  "  "No,  I'll  wait  until  I  get  home.  They'll  all  want 
to  see  it."  When  he  got  home  that  letter  would  be  an  event  in  the 
family,  and  perhaps  it  would  take  them  half  an  hour  to  wade  through 
it  and  make  out  its  contents.  Nine  out  of  ten  of  those  country  let- 
ters began,  * '  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  let  you  know  that  I  am  well, 
and  hope  these  few  lines  will  find  you  enjoying  the  same  blessing." 
My  father  kept  store  and  his  country  customers  used  to  ask  him  to 
write  their  letters  for  them,  and  he  always  sent  them  to  me,  and  most 
of  them  told  me  to  begin  their  letters  that  way.  There  was  not  more 
than  one  in  five  that  could  write,  but  they  were  good,  clever,  honest 
people  and  paid  their  debts,  but  they  hardly  ever  paid  up  in  full  at 
the  end  of  the  year,  and  so  they  gave  their  notes  for  the  balance  and 
made  their  mark.  My  father  used  to  say  that  he  had  known  cases 
where  a  man  swore  off  his  written  signature,  but  he  never  knew  a  man 
to  deny  his  mark.  Our  big  northern  mail  used  to  come  in  a  stage 
from  Madison  twice  a  week,  and  I  used  to  think  the  sound  of  the 
stage-horn  as  the  stage  came  over  the  hill,  was  one  of  the  sublimest- 
things  in  the  world,  and  I  thought  that  if  ever  I  got  to  be  a  man  I 
would  be  a  stage-driver  if  I  could.  Well,  I  came  pretty  near  it,  for 
my  father  had  hired  a  man  to  ride  the  mail  to  Eoswell  and  back  twice  a 
week,  and  the  man  got  sick  and  so  my  father  put  me  on  a  dromedary 
of  a  horse  and  the  mail  in  some  saddle-bags  behind  me,  and  I  had  to 
make  the  forty-eight  miles  in  a  day  and  kept  it  up  all  the  winter.  I 
liked  to  have  frozen  several  times,  and  had  to  be  lifted  oflf  the  horse  when 
I  got  home,  and  it  nearly  broke  my  mother's  heart,  but  I  was  getting  a 
dollar  a  trip  and  it  was  my  money,  and  so  I  wouldn't  back  out.  The 
old  women  on  the  route  used  to  crowd  me  with  their  little  commissions 
and  get  me  to  bring  them  pepper,  or  copperas,  or  bluing,  or  pins  and 
needles,  or  get  me  to  take  along  some  socks  and  sell  them,  and  so  I 


The  Farm  and  Tiie  Fikesede.  171 

made  friends  and  acquaintances  all  the  way.  The  first  trip  I  ruade, 
an  old  ■woman  hailed  me  and  said,  "  Are  you  a  mail  boy '? "  "Why^ 
yes,  mam,"  said  I.  "You  dident  think  I  was  a  female  boy,  did 
you  ? "  I  thought  that  was  smart,  but  it  wasent  very  civil  and  it 
made  her  so  mad  she  never  told  me  what  she  wanted,  and  as  slie 
turned  her  back  on  me  I  heard  her  say,  "I'll  bet  he's  a  little  stuck  up 
town  boy." 

]My  father  was  postmaster  for  nearly  thirty  years.  It  didn't  pay 
more  than  about  $200  a  year,  but  it  made  his  store  more  of  a  public 
place.  He  didn't  know  that  anybody  else  hankered  after  it  or  was 
trying  to  get  it,  but  all  of  a  sudden  he  got  his  orders  to  turn  over  the 
office  to  another  man,  an  old  line  Whig  and  a  competitor  in  business. 
It  mortified  him  very  much  and  made  us  all  mad,  for  there  was  no 
fault  found  with  his  management,  and  he  never  took  much  interest  in 
politics  but  voted  for  the  man  he  liked  the  best  whether  he  was  a 
Vv  hig  or  a  Democrat.  When  he  found  that  Alex.. Stephens  had  it  done 
he  wasent  a  Stephens  man  any  more,  and  I  grew  up  with  an  idea 
that  Mr.  Stephens  was  a  political  fraud.  I  dident  understand  the 
science  of  politics  as  well  as  I  do  now.  I  told  Mr.  Stephens  about  it 
one  night  at  Milledgeville  when  we  were  all  in  a  good  humor  and 
wei-e  talking  about  the  old  times  of  Whigs  and  Democrats,  and  he 
smiled  and  said,  "yes,  we  had  to  do  those  things,  and  sometimes  they 
were  very  disagreeable."  I  will  never  forget  that  night's  talk.  It 
was  during  the  session  of  the  first  legislature  after  the  war.  Jim 
Waddell  took  me  to  Mr.  Stephens'  room  to  hear  him  talk,  and  there 
was  Mr.  Jenkins  and  Tom  Hardeman  and  Benning  Moore  and  Beverly 
Thornton  and  Peter  Strozier  and  Dr.  Ridley  and  some  others,  and 
everybody  was  in  a  good  humor,  and  Mr.  Stephens  was  reclining  on 
his  bed  and  told  anecdote  after  anecdote  about  the  old  Whigs  and 
how  he  met  the  Democrats  on  the  stump  and  what  they  said  and  what 
he  said,  and  he  most  always  got  the  advantage  and  carried  the  crowd 
with  him.  I  was  very  much  fascinated  with  his  conversation,  but 
couldent  help  being  reminded  of  a  circumstance  that  transpired  some 
years  before  in  the  town  of  Calhoun.  The  Whigs  of  Gordon  county 
had  sent  for  Mr.  Stephens  to  come  up  and  make  a  speech  and  rally 
the  boys  for  the  next  election,  for  Gordon  was  pretty  equally  balanced 
between  Whigs  and  Democrats,  and  the  Whigs  wanted  a  big  revival. 
So  Aleck  accepted,  and  when  the  day  came  the  crowd  Avas  tremendous.. 


172  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

The  Democrats  had  tried  to  get  Howell  Cobb  and  Herschel  Johnson 
to  come  up  and  reply  to  Aleck,  but  they  couldent  come,  and  so  little 
Aleck  had  it  all  his  own  way.  In  the  meantime  the  Democratic  boys 
had  hunted  up  A.  M.  Russell  and  got  his  promise  to  reply  to  Mr. 
Stephens.  Russell  was  an  original  genius.  He  was  gifted  in  language, 
gifted  in  imagination,  gifted  in  cheek,  gifted  in  lying,  and  was  utterly 
regardless  of  consequences. 

Mr.  Stephens  made  a  splendid  speech.  He  arraigned  the  Democ- 
racy and  held  them  up  to  ridicule,  and  when  he  got  through  the 
Whigs  "were  more  than  satisfied,  and  Mr.  Stephens  was  satisfied,  too — 
lie  came  down  from  the  stand  and  was  receiving  the  congratulations  of 
bis  friends,  when  suddenly  Russell  mounted  the  rostrum  and,  rapping 
on  the  plank  in  front  of  him,  screamed  out  in  one  unearthly  yell: 
"Fellow  citizens!"  Everybody  knew  him,  and  everybody  "wanted  to 
bear  him,  and  hushed  into  silence.  After  a  sentence  or  two  Mr. 
Stephens  was  attracted  to  him,  and  with  curious  and  astonished  inter- 
est inquired,  "Who  is  that  man?"  After  Russell  had  paid  an  elo- 
quent tribute  to  the  glorious  old  Democratic  party,  and  given  it 
credit  for  every  good  thing  that  had  been  done  since  the  fall  of  Adam, 
be  then  turned  to  Mr.  Stephens,  and,  with  a  sneering  scorn,  said: 
"And  what  have  you  and  your  party  been  doing  and  trying  to  do  ? 
"WTiat  made  you  vote  away  the  public  lands  so  that  yankees  and  fur- 
riners  could  get  'em  and  our  people  couldent?  What  made  you  vote 
for  high  tariff  on  sugar  and  coffee  and  raise  the  price  so  that  our  poor 
people  couldent  buy  it?"  Mr.  Stephens  rose  excited  and  irritated, 
and  stretching  his  long  arm  to  the  audience,  screamed  out:  "I  never 
■did  it,  my  fellow-citizens — I  deny  the  fact  and  call  upon  the  gen- 
tlemen for  his  proof."  With  the  utmost  self-possession,  Russell  said, 
"You  do — you  call  for  the  proof.  Sir,  if  I  was  to  go  two  miles  from 
home  to  make  a  speech  I  would  carry  my  proof  with  me.  I  wouldent 
be  vain  enough  to  go  "without  it;  but,  sir,  I  am  at  home — these  peo- 
ple know  me — they  raised  me  and  when  I  assert  a  thing  they  believe 
it.  You  are  the  man  to  bi'ing  the  proof."  The  crowd  shouted  an^ 
laughed  as  tumultuously  as  they  had  done  for  Mr.  Stephens,  and  he 
sat  down  disgusted.  Russell  continued:  "And  what  was  your  motive 
when  you  were  a  member  of  the  legislature  in  voting  for  a  law  that 
prohibited  a  man  from  voting  unless  he  was  worth  $500?  Answer 
me  that  while  you  are  here  face  to  face  with  these  humble  citizens  of 


The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside.  175 

Gordon  county.  At  this  Mr.  Stephens  rose  again  furious  with  indig- 
nation and  screamed  :   *'It  is  false,  sir,  it  is  false;  I  deny  the  fact." 

"You  do,"  said  Russell,  scornfully,  "I  supposed  you  would — you 
deny  the  fact.  That  is  just  what  you  have  been  doing  for  twenty 
years — going  about  over  the  country  denying  facts."  And  the 
crowd  went  wild  with  merriment,  for  even  the  Whigs  couldn't  help 
joining  in  the  fun.  Mr.  Stephens  turned  to  his  companions  and  said 
with  a  tone  of  despair,  "Let  us  go  to  the  hotel,"  and  they  went. 

I  thought  of  all  this  while  Mr.  Stephens  was  telling  me  of  his 
triumphs  over  veteran  foes,  and  so  when  he  came  to  a  pause  I  timidly 
said:  "Mr.  Stephens,  did  you  ever  encounter  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Russell  up  at  Calhoun?" 

"With  a  merry  glistening  of  his  wonderful  eyes  he  straightened  up  and 
said :  "I  did,  I  did,  yes,  I  did.  I  will  never  forget  that  man.  He  got  me 
completely.  If  I  had  known  him  I  would  not  have  said  a  word  in 
reply,  but  I  dident  know  him.  He  cured  me  of  one  expression.  I 
frequently  used  to  emphasize  my  denial  of  lies  and  slander,  and  that 
was  to  say,  'I  deny  the  fact.'  I  had  never  thought  of  its  grammatical 
absurdity,  but  that  man  Russell  taught  me  and  I  quit  it.  I  think  he 
had  the  most  wonderful  flow  of  language  and  lies  of  any  man  I  ever 
met."  Mr.  Stephens  then  made  a  pretty  fair  recital  of  his  recounter 
and  his  "utter  defeat,"  as  he  expressed  it,  all  of  which  we  enjoyed. 
Where  are  they  now?  Old  Father  Time  has  cut  them  all  down  but 
three,  Hardeman  and  Thornton  and  myself  are  here,  but  all  the  rest 
of  that  bright,  intelligent  crowd  are  gone.  It  looks  like  most  every- 
body is  dead.  If  they  are  not  they  will  be  before  long,  and  another 
set  will  be  in  their  places  and  have  their  jokes  and  flash  their  wit  and 
merriment  all  the  same. 


174  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


Sticking  to  the  Old. 

As  the  world  grows  older  mankind  becomes  more  liberal  in  opinion 
and  less  wedded  to  prejudice  and  superstition.  We  rub  against  one 
another  so  closely  nowadays,  and  talk  so  much  and  read  so  much  that 
our  conceit  is  weakening,  and  we  think  more  and  think  deeper  than 
we  used  to,  and  are  more  ready  to  absorb  knowledge.  A  man  don't 
dare  nowadays  to  say  anything  is  impossible,  for  many  impossibilities 
have  already  been  performed,  and  we  now  live  in  a  state  of  anxious 
expectation  as  to  what  big  thing  will  come  next.  Still,  there  are  some 
folks  who  stubbornly  refuse  to  fall  into  line,  and  they  stand  by  the 
old  landmarks.  Not  long  ago  I  passeed  by  a  blacksmith  shop  away 
o3  in  the  country,  and  there  was  a  horse  doctor  cutting  the  hooks  out 
of  a  horse's  eyes  to  keep  him  from  going  blind,  and  he  got  very  indig- 
nant when  I  told  him  that  the  horse  books  were  all  against  it,  and  said 
it  ought  to  be  prohibited  by  law.  I  heard  an  old  hardshell  arguing 
against  this  idea  that  the  world  turned  over  every  day,  and  he  declared 
it  was  against  common  sense  and  Scripture,  and  he  wouldent  let  his  chil- 
dren go  to  school  to  learn  any  such  nonsense,  for  he  knowed  that  the 
water  would  all  spill  out  if  you  turned  it  upside  down,  and  the  Scrip- 
ters  said  that  Joshua  commanded  the  sun  to  stand  still,  and  it  stood 
still ;  and  he  asked  me  how  I  was  going  to  get  over  the  like  of  that. 
I  saw  that  the  crowd  was  against  me,  and  so  I  replied:  "Jesso. 
Jesso,  my  friend.  And  right  then  the  wonderful  change  took  place. 
The  sun  used  to  go  around  the  earth,  of  course,  but  Joshua  stopped  it 
and  he  never  set  it  to  going  again,  and  it  is  there  yet." 

This  weakened  the  old  man  a  little  and  unsettled  the  crowd,  and  I 
got  away  from  there  prematurely  for  fear  the  old  man  would  send  for 
his  Bible.  Answer  a  fool  according  to  his  folly  is  a  good  way  some- 
times. Dr.  Harden  told  me  about  his  father  raising  a  rumpus  a  long 
time  ago  in  old  Watkinsville  by  asserting  that  all  horses  had  botts  in 
"em,  and  it  was  accordin'  to  nature  and  the  botts  were  not  a  disease, 


The  Farbi  and  The  FniESiDE.  175 

and  a  liorse  never  died  on  account  of  'em.  Old  man  Moore  kept  the 
tavern  there  and  he  swore  that  Harden  was  a  luniack,  and  so  one  day 
when  they  were  playing  checkers  in  the  tavern  a  storm  came  up  and  a 
terrible  crash  was  heard,  and  pretty  soon  a  darkey  came  running  in 
the  house  and  told  his  master  the  lightning  had  struck  his  iron  grey 
horse  and  killed  him.  Old  man  Moore  thought  as  much  of  that  horse 
as  he  did  of  his  wife,  and  the  crowd  all  hurried  out  to  the  lot  to  see 
him.  Moore  was  greatly  distressed  and  used  bad  language  about  the 
catastrophe,  and  after  he  subsided  a  little,  Harden  says  he,  "Now 
Moore,  if  you  say  so,  I'll  cut  open  that  horse  and  show  you  the  botts, 
and  I  reckon  that  will  settle  it."  So  Moore  agreed  to  it,  and  when  he 
was  opened,  and  the  botts  began  to  cut  their  way  out  and  worm 
around.  Harden  looked  at  Moore  with  triumphant  satisfaction  and 
paused  for  a  reply.  Moore  had  his  hands  crossed  behind  his  back, 
and  was  gazing  intently  at  the  ugly  varmints,  when  suddenly  he 
exclaimed,  "Harden,  I  was  powerful  mad  with  that  lightning  for  kill- 
ing old  Selim,  but  I  ain't  now,  for  if  the  lightning  hadent  struck  him 
I'll  be  damned  if  them  infernal  botts  wouldent  have  killed  him  in 
thirty  minutes."  Moore  had  a  big  fighting  stump-tail  dog  by  the  name 
of  Ratler,  and  one  day  a  little  Italian  came  along  with  an  organ  and 
a  monkey,  and  as  the  crowd  gatherd  around  he  asked  the  man  if  his 
monkey  could  fight.  "Oh,  yes,  he  fight,"  said  the  Italian.  "Will 
he  fight  a  dog?"  said  Moore.  "Oh,  yes;  he  fight  a  dog — he  whip 
dog  quick,"  said  the  Italian.  Moore  pulled  out  a  five  dollar  bill  and 
said,  "I'll  bet  you  this  that  I've  got  a  dog  he  can't  whip."  The  little 
fellow  covered  it  with  another  five  and  the  money  was  handed  over  to 
a  stakeholder  and  they  went  through  to  the  back  yard,  followed  by 
half  the  folks  in  the  little  town.  There  lay  the  dog  on  the  grass 
asleep,  and  at  the  word  the  Italian  tossed  the  monkey  on  him.  In 
less  than  a  jiffy  the  little  brute  had  his  teeth  and  his  claws  fastened 
like  a  vise  in  the  stump  of  that  dog's  tail  and  was  screeching  like  a 
hyena.  The  dog  gave  but  one  astonished  look  behind  as  he  bounced 
to  his  feet  and  made  tracks  for  another  country.  The  monkey  held 
on  until  Ratler  sprung  over  a  ten-rail  fence  at  the  back  of  the  garden 
when  he  suddenly  quit  his  hold  and  sat  on  the  top  rail,  and  watched 
the  dog's  flight  with  a  chatter  of  perfect  satisfaction  and  danced  along 
the  rail  with  delight.  The  crowd  was  convulsed.  They  laughed  and 
roared  and  hollered  tumultuously,  all  but  old  man  Moore  whose,  voice 


176  The  Farm  and  The  Fikeside. 

could  be  heard  above  all  others  as  he  stood  upon  the  fence  and  shouted 
"Here  Ratler,  here,  here;  here  Ratler,  here;  here  Ratler,  here."" 
But  Ratler  wouldent  hear.  Ratler  rattled  on  and  on,  across  field  after 
field,  until  he  got  to  the  woods  and  was  gone  from  human  sight.  The 
Italian  shouldered  his  monkey  afiectionately,  and  walking  up  to  Moore, 
said:  "Your  dog  not  well  to-day,  maybe  your  dog  gone  ofi  to  hunt 
rabbeet.  Your  dog  no  like  my  monkey — he  not  acquint.  Maybe 
ven  I  come  again  next  year  he  come  and  fight  some  more.  Ven  you 
look  for  heem  to  come  back?"  Moore  gave  up  the  wager,  but  he 
asserted  solemnly  that  Ratler  would  have  whipped  the  fight  if  he 
hadent  have  run.  "The  surprise,  gentlemen,  the  surprise  was  what 
done  it,"  said  he,  "for  that  dog  has  whij^ped  wild  cats  and  a  bear  and 
a  she  wolf  and  every  dog  in  ten  miles  of  Watkinsville."  And  all 
that  evening  and  away  in  the  night  and  early  the  next  morning  an 
inviting  mournful  voice  could  be  heard  at  the  back  of  the  garden 
calling,  "Ratler  here;"  Ratler,  here ;  and  three  days  after  a  man 
brought  Ratler  home,  but  he  had  lost  his  integrity  and  never  could  be 
induced  to  fight  anything  more. 

Some  men  never  give  up  a  thing,  and  some  give  up  too  much. 
Judge  Bleckley  says  that  he  is  in  the  cautious,  credulous  state  about 
everything,  and  just  lives  along  serenely  and  waits  for  events.  He 
says  that  if  a  man  can  hear  the  voice  of  a  friend  from  New  York  to 
Boston  by  the  aid  of  a  telephone,  why  shouldn't  all  the  other  senses 
be  aided  in  like  manner  by  some  invention;  and  he  hints  that  he 
wouldent  be  surprised  at  an  invention  that  would  enable  a  man  to  kiss 
his  wife  across  the  Atlantic  ocean.  I  don't  think  that  follows  to  reason, 
for  hearing  and  seeing  are  both  for  distance,  and  so  is  smelling,  but 
feeling  is  a  very  different  thing.  Feeling  means  contact,  and  the 
closer  the  contact  the  more  intense  the  feeling.  It  never  was  intended 
to  feel  afar  off,  and  so  I  don't  believe  that  any  good  would  come  of  a 
man  kissing  his  wife  through  a  machine  a  thousand  miles  long.  It 
would  be  very  dangerous,  for  it  might  encourage  folks  to  be  kissing 
other  people's  wives,  and  the  machine  would  be  kept  busy  all  the  time, 
for  there  are  some  men  who  couldent  be  choked  off",  and  by  and  by 
the  whole  world  would  be  kissing  one  another,  and  business  would 
be  neglected  and  mankind  would  come  to  want. 

But  I  do  believe  that  everything  will  come  that  ought  to  come. 
Nature  has  a  mighty  big  storehouse,  and  she  always  unlocks  it  at  the 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  177 

right  time.  She  is  very  economical  of  her  treasures,  and  keeps  'em 
from  us  until  she  sees  that  we  are  obliged  to  have  'em.  Cotton  dident 
come,  nor  cotton  machinery,  until  the  world  was  bad  oif  for  clothing. 
The  sewing  machine  come  along  just  as  the  poor  women  were  about 
worn  out,  and  Tom  Hood  had  written  his  sad,  sweet  "Song  of  the 
Shirt."  Coal  was  found  when  wood  got  scarce  in  the  old  world.  Rail- 
roads and  steamships  were  invented  as  population  increased,  and  now 
we  couldent  possibly  do  without  'em.  Old  Peter  Cooper  said  that  a 
million  of  people  would  perish  in  New  York  city  in  one  month  if  the 
cars  were  to  stop  running  that  long.  Then  came  the  telegraph,  and 
now  the  telephone,  and  I  don't  think  any  other  very  big  thing  will 
happen  soon,  for  mankind  is  very  comfortable,  and  don't  need  it,  so 
let  us  all  rest  awhile  and  let  Dame  Nature  rest.  She  has  been  very 
kind  to  her  creatures,  and  we  all  ought  to  be  thankful. 


178  The  Farivi  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


A  Peose  Poem  on  Spring. 

On  this  pellucid  day  when  the  sky  is  so  beautifully  blue  and  the 
sun  so  warm  and  cheerful,  when  the  jaybirds  are  chanting  their  safe 
return  from  purgatory  and  the  crows  are  cawing  over  the  sprouting 
corn,  when  the  sheep  bells  tinkle  merrily  in  the  meadow  and  children 
and  chickens  are  cackling  around,  it  seems  like  everything  in  nature 
was  happy  and  everybody  ought  to  be.  The  darkies  are  singing  to 
the  mules  in  the  cotton  field  and  are  happier  with  a  little  than  the 
white  folks  are  with  a  good  deal.  The  darkey  never  borrows  trouble. 
I  wish  our  race  would  take  a  few  lessons  in  contentment  from  'em — 
not  enough  to  make  us  shiftless  and  with  no  ambition  to  better  our 
condition,  but  enough  to  stop  this  restlessness,  this  wild  rush  for 
money,  this  wear  and  tear  upon  brain  and  heart  that  is  getting  to  be 
the  curse  of  the  land.  I  wish  everybody  was  happy  and  had  nothing 
against  nobody.  I  wish  every  farmer  had  fine  horses  and  fat  cattle 
and  plenty  of  pocket  change,  and  dident  have  to  work  only  when  he 
felt  like  it.  I  wish  I  had  a  winter  home  in  Florida  with  orange  groves 
and  pine  apples  and  bananas,  and  a  summer  home  up  among  the 
mountains,  and  a  raih'oad  and  palace  cars  between  the  two,  and  a  free 
pass  over  the  line  and  plenty  of  monoy  at  both  ends  of  it.  I  wish  I 
was  a  king  with  a  mint  of  gold  and  silver  at  my  command,  so  I  could 
go  about  in  disguise  and  mingle  with  the  poor  and  friendless  and  lift 
them  up  out  of  distress  and  make  'em  happy.  I  wish  I  was  a  genii 
like  we  read  of  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  could,  at  a  breath,  build 
palaces  and  make  diamonds  and  pearls  and  marry  all  the  poor  girls  to 
rich  husbands,  and  all  the  struggling  boys  to  princesses  and  kick  up  a 
cloud  of  golden  dust  wherever  I  went.  No  I  don't,  either,  for  I  know 
now  that  the  like  of  that  wouldent  bring  happiness  in  this  sublunary 
world.  The  best  condition  for  a  man  is  to  have  neither  poverty  nor 
riches.     Old  Agur  prayed  a  good  prayer  and  he  knew  how  it 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  179 

For  riches  bring  us  trouble  when  they  come, 
And  there's  want  in  the  homes  of  the  poor, 

But  it's  good  for  a  man  to  have  a  little  sum 
To  keep  away  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

Some  folks  are  never  liappr  unless  they  are  miserable.  Their  livers 
ai'e  green  and  yellow  like  melancholy,  and  they  want  everything  they 
can  get,  and  would  rather  see  mankind  going  to  hell  than  to  heaven 
if  they  could  stay  behind  and  play  wreckers  on  eternity's  shore.  I 
have  seen  men  whose  very  presence  would  dry  up  all  hilarity  as  quick 
as  a  slack  tub  cools  hot  iron.  Men  who  never  smile  willingly,  and 
when  they  force  one  the  cadaverous  visage  is  lit  up  for  a  moment  with 
«,  brimstone  light,  and  then  relapses  into  its  natural  scowl.  Such  peo- 
ple are  a  nuisance  upon  society,  and  ought  to  be  abolished  or  put  into 
a  lower  asylum  like  luniacks.  I've  no  more  toleration  for  'em  than 
for  a  mad  dog,  and  if  there's  any  apology  it's  in  favor  of  the  dog. 

How  inspiring  is  the  earliest  breath  of  spring,  when  nature  like  a 
blushing  maid  is  putting  on  her  pantalets  and  preparing  to  bang  her 
silken  hair.  How  quickly  it  brings  to  life  the  slumbering  emotions 
which,  though  chilled  by  the  frosts  and  the  winds  of  winter,  were  not 
-dead,  but  only  lay  dormant  like  a  bear  in  his  den.  What  harmoni- 
ous feelings  spring  up  in  one's  bosom  and  gush  forth  to  all  mankind. 
This  balmy  weather  fills  all  the  chambers  of  the  soul  with  music  that 
is  not  heard  and  with  poetry  that  is  not  expressed.  The  very  air  is 
redolent  with  love  and  peace.  Turnip  greens  are  running  up  to  seed, 
the  plum  trees  are  in  bloom,  the  busy  bee  is  sucking  their  fragrant 
Wossoms,  and  by  and  by  wUl  be  stinging  the  children  as  usual.  The 
sweet  south  wind  is  breathing  upon  the  violet  banks.  Alder  tags 
hang  in  graceful  clusters  upon  their  drooping  stems.  Jonquills  are 
in  a  yellow  strut,  and  the  odorous  shallots  are  about  right  for  the  fry- 
ing pan.  The  little  silver-sides  and  minnows  have  opened  their 
spring  regattas.  The  classical  robin  has  ceased  to  get  drunk  on  the 
China  berry,  and  the  ferocious  chicken  hawk  catches  about  one  a  day 
from  our  earliest  broods.     Everything  is  lively  now — 

Over  the  meadows  the  new-born  lambs  are  skipping, 
Over  the  fields  the  little  boys  are  ripping. 

The  country  is  the  best  place  for  children.  What  a  glorious  luxury 
it  is  for  them  to  go  barefooted  and  wade  in  the  branch  and  go  seining, 
and  climb  trees  and  hunt  birds'  nests,  and  carry  the  corn  to  mill,  and 


180  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

run  pony  races.  It  is  well  enough  for  a  man  to  live  in  a  town  or  a- 
city  when  he  is  young  and  active,  but  when  he  gets  married  and  the 
little  chaps  come  along  according  to  nature,  he  ought  to  get  on  a  farm 
to  raise  'em.  An  old  man  with  numerous  grandchildren  has  got  no 
business  in  a  city.  What  a  burlesque  on  childhood's  joy  it  must  be 
to  visit  grandpa  and  grandma  in  a  city  penned  up  in  brick  walls,  wtih 
a  few  sickly  flowers  in  the  window,  and  a  garden  in  the  rear  about  as 
big  as  a  wagon  sheet.  Might  as  well  try  to  raise  good,  healthy,  vig- 
orous colts  in  a  stable  yard.  There  is  too  much  machinery  about  rais- 
ing children  now-a-days  anyhow.  The  race  is  running  out,  and  noth- 
ing but  country  life  can  save  it.  The  old  back-log  is  gone,  and  the 
big,  open,  friendly  fire-place,  and  the  cheerful  blazing  family  hearth; 
and  now  it  is  a  hole  in  the  floor,  or  iron  pipes  running  around  the 
walls.  I  reckon  that  is  economy,  but  in  my  opinion  a  man  can't  im- 
prove the  stock  that  way,  nor  keep  it  as  good  as  it  was.  The  children 
will  be  picayunish  and  over-nice  and  sharp-featured,  and  potty  before 
and  gimletty  behind.  They  won't  do  to  bet  on  like  those  chaps 
brought  up  around  a  fire-place  on  a  hundred-acre  farm. 

Raising  children  is  the  principal  business  of  human  life,  and  is  about 
all  that  the  majority  of  mankind  are  working  for,  though  they  don't 
know  it.  It  is  the  excuse  for  all  the  mad  rush  of  business  that  hurries 
su  along.  It  is  the  apology  for  nearly  all  the  cheating  and  stealing  and 
lying  in  the  land.  Working  for  the  children  is  behind  it  all,  and  the 
trouble  is  that  most  everybody  is  trying  to  do  too  much  for  'em  and 
scuffling  against  wind  and  tide  to  keep  up  with  their  nabors  or  get  a  lit- 
tle ahead.  Too  many  fine  clothes,  too  many  kid  gloves  and  parasols  and 
new  bonnets — too  many  carpets  and  curtains  and  pictures,  and  a  thou- 
sand other  things  that  run  up  the  outgo  bigger  than  the  income,  and 
keep  the  poor  fellows  always  on  a  strain.  I  love  to  humor  'em  and 
play  horse  with  'em,  and  tell  'em  stories  about  Jack  and  the  bean 
stalk,  and  what  I  did  when  I  was  a  little  boy;  and  I  put  'em  to  bed 
and  rub  their  backs  and  let  'em  trot  around  with  me  a  good  deal  on 
week  days  and  all  day  Sunday,  but  I'm  not  going  to  waste  my  slender 
substance  on  'em,  for  it's  nature's  law  that  they  must  work  for  a  liv- 
ing and  they  shall.  I'm  going  to  raise  'em  in  the  country,  for  as 
Thomas  Jefferson  said,  "the  influence  of  great  cities  is  pestilential  to 
health  and  morals  and  the  liberties  of  the  people." 


The  Fapjsi  and  The  Fireside.  181 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


Uncle  Bart. 

Old  Uncle  Bart,  as  we  call  him,  wasn't  a  common  drunkard  nor  an 
uncommon  one  either,  but  every  time  he  came  to  town  he  would  get 
drunk.  He  came  mighty  seldom,  for  when  he  did  the  memory  of  it 
lasted  hira  about  three  months.  He  told  me  after  such  a  spree  he  felt 
as  mean  and  lonely  as  a  stray  dog.  He  said  he  couldn't  eat  nor  sleep, 
and  away  in  the  night  wanted  water  so  bad  he  "felt  like  he  could  bite 
a  branch  in  two  and  swallow  the  upper  end." 

One  morning  he  came  in  early  to  see  Dolph  Ross,  who  was  going  to 
Texas.  He  came  across  him  before  he  came  across  the  grocery,  and 
says  he:     "Hallo,  Dolph — gwine  to  Texas?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Bart,  I  am." 

"Well,  my  brother  Ben  lives  over  there,  and  he's  got  big  rich,  and 
no  family,  and  I  thought  if  you'd  see  him  and  tell  him  how  sorry  we 
was  gettin'  along  he  mout  do  something  for  us.  You  see  my  wheat 
■crop  is  likely  to  fail,  for  the  back-water  from  the  spring  freshet  got 
over  it,  and  it's  all  turned  yaller,  and  my  corn  looks  sickly,  and  my 
"best  cow  got  snake-bit  last  week  and  died,  and  the  old  lady  is  power- 
lul  puny,  and  Sal  she  got  to  haukerin'  arter  a  likely  chap  in  the 
naborhood  and  married  him,  and  he  ain't  got  nothin',  and  I'm  gettin' 
old  and  can't  stand  nigh  as  much  as  I  used  to,  and  I  want  you  to  see 
Brother  Ben,  and  maybe  he'll  do  somethin' — you  see?" 

"Yes,  I  see,  Uncle  Bart,  but  where  does  your  brother  Ben  live?" 

"Live?  Why,  he  lives  in  Texas,  I  told  ye!  If  you  don't  meet 
Lim  in  the  road  you  can  send  him  some  word  by  somebody  and  he'U 
find  you.     He's  over  there,  shore." 

In  about  an  hour  he  met  Dolph  again,  ?.nd  slapping  his  foot  down 
limberly,  he  seized  Dolph's  hand  with  a  loving  grip,  and  says  he, 
"Hello,  Dolph — gwine  to  Texas?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Bart." 

^' Will  you  tell  Brother  Ben  that  we  are  all  doin'  tol'able;   the  crop 


182  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

looks  'bout  as  good  as  common,  and  the  old  'oman's  sweet  and  sassy  as; 
ever,  and  Sal,  she's  married  and  done  splendid.  Good  by,  Dolph, 
God  bless  you,  I  love  you." 

In  about  two  more  drinks,  from  that  time,  Uncle  Bart  come  weavin' 
along,  and,  says  he,  "Hello,  Dolph,  gwine  to  Texas? — tell  Brother 
Bren  I've  got — I've  got  the  brest  crop  in  the — State — to  let  me  know 
how  he's  golonging  along^-if  he  wants  anything — he  shall — s'havit — 
he  shan't — he  shan't — she  shan't  suffer — as  long  as — as  I've  got  nothin' 
— I  can  send  him — twen  or  twelve-teen  dollars — any  time — fwarwell 
Dolph." 

About  the  close  of  the  day  Dolph  found  him  on  the  lowermost  step 
of  the  grocery,  his  head  on  his  knees  and  his  hat  on  the  ground. 
Thinking  it  a  poor  place  to  spend  the  night,  he  aroused  him  to  a  glim- 
mering view  of  the  situation. 

"Hello — Roff  Doss,"  says  he,  "gwine  to — Texas? — tell  Brother 
Ben — hell's  afloat  and  the  river's  a-risin'."     (Hie.) 


The  Fakvi  and  The  Fireside.  183 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


Christmas  on  the  Farm. 

A  happy  Xew  Year  to  you  and  your  readers.  I  don't  mean  just  the 
first  day,  but  all  the  year  round.  I  wish  from  my  heart  everybody 
■was  comfortable  and  contented  and  everybody  lived  in  peace.  I  was 
ruminating  over  that  kind  of  a  millenium  which  would  come  if  there 
were  no  bad  folks — no  lazy  folks,  no  envy  nor  spite  nor  revenge — no 
bad  passions  but  everybody  took  things  easy  and  tried  to  make  all 
around  them  happy.  I  wasent  thinking  about  a  religious  millennium 
for  I  have  known  peoplo  to  make  mighty  good,  honorable  citizens 
who  dident  have  any  religion  to  spare  and  some  who  had  a  power  of  it 
on  Sunday  but  was  a  juggling  with  the  devil  all  the  rest  of  the  week. 
I  was  thinking  about  that  class  of  folks  who  gave  us  no  trouble  and 
was  always  willing  to  tote  fair.  The  law  wasent  made  for  them.  I 
was  thinking  about  the.  half  a  million  of  dollars  it  costs  to  run  the 
State  government  a  year  and  the  half  a  million  more  it  costs  to  run 
the  counties  and  courts.  If  everybody  was  clever  and  kind  we  could 
save  most  all  of  it  and  in  a  few  years  everybody  would  have  enough  to 
be  comfortable  and  to  educate  their  children.  The  laws  are  made  for 
bad  people  only  and  bad  people  costs  us  about  all  the  surplus  that's 
made.  I  know  folks  all  around  me  who  never  violate  a  law  or  impose 
on  their  nabors  or  have  a  law  suit,  and  it  seems  to  me  they  ought  not 
to  be  taxed  like  people  who  are  always  a  fussing  around  the  court- 
house and  taking  up  the  time  of  juries  and  witnesses.  There  ought  to 
be  some  way  to  reward  good  citizens  who  give  us  no  trouble  or  ex- 
pense, and  to  make  folks  who  love  strife  and  contention  pay  the 
expense  of  it. 

But  I  started  out  wishing  for  a  happy  New  Year  to  everybody,  and 
my  opinion  is  that  we  can  all  make  it  happy  if  we  tiy.  Lets  try. 
Lets  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  Lets  have  a  Christmas  all  the  year  long. 
Lets  keep  the  family  hearth  always  bright  and  pleasant.  Fussing 
and  fretting  don't  pay.     Solomon  says  its  like  water  dropping  on  a 


184  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsmE. 

rock — it  will  wear  away  a  stone.  The  home  of  an  unhappy  discordant 
family  is  no  home  at  all.  It  aint  even  a  decent  purgatory.  The 
children  won't  stay  there  any  longer  than  possible.  They  will  emi- 
grate and  I  don't  blame  'em. 

We've  had  a  power  of  fun  at  my  house  the  last  few  days.  Mrs. 
Arp  said  she  was  going  to  town.  She  had  a  little  passel  of  money 
hid  away — nobody  knew  how  much  or  where  she  got  it,  but  sometimes 
when  my  loose  change  is  laying  around  or  left  in  my  pockets,  I've 
noticed  that  it  disappears  very  mysteriously.  It  took  about  two  hours 
to  arrange  herself  for  the  expedition  and  she  left  us  on  a  mission  of 
peace  on  earth,  and  good  will  to  her  children. 

"Now  AViHiam,  you  know  the  Christmas  tree  is  to  be  put  up  in  the 
hall.  You  have  very  good  taste  about  such  things  and  I  know  I  can 
trust  you  without  any  directions.  Put  in  that  large  square  box  in  the 
smoke  house  and  fasten  it  well  to  the  bottom  and  put  the  top  on  the 
box  for  a  table,  and  the  girls  wiU  cover  it  nicely  with  some  curtain 
calico.  But  I  will  not  direct  you  for  I  know  you  can  fix  it  all  right. 
There  are  most  too  many  limbs  on  the  tree.  There  is  a  lot  of  pop 
corn  already  threaded  and  you  can  arrange  them  in  festoons  all  over  the 
tree,  and  the  oranges  that  Dick  sent  us  from  Florida  are  locked  up  in  the 
pantry.  Thread  them  with  a  large  needle  and  tie  them  all  about  on  the 
limbs.  The  little  wax  candles  and  the  tins  to  fasten  them  are  in  the 
drawer  of  my  bureau.  I've  had  them  for  several  years  and  we  will 
light  up  the  tree  to-night.  The  milk  is  ready  to  churn  you  know. 
Set  the  jar  in  the  large  tin  bucket  before  you  churn.  It  will  save 
messing  the  floor.  There  are  two  turkeys  in  the  coop — take  the  fat- 
test one — you  can  tell  by  holding  them  up  in  your  hands.  Ralph  will 
help  about  the  turkey.  If  you  think  one  turkey  will  not  be  enough 
you  had  better  kill  a  couple  of  chickens  to  go  with  it.  I  do  hope  all 
the  children  will  be  here,  but  I  am  afraid  they  won't.  It  does  look 
like  we  might  get  together  once  a  year  anyhow.  Now  do  attend  to 
the  turkey  just  as  nice  as  you  can,  and  leave  the  butter  for  me  to  work 
over  when  I  come  back.  The  front  yard  ought  to  be  swept  and  the 
back  yard  is  in  an  awful  mess.  But  I  will  just  leave  everything  to 
you.  Keep  the  hall  doors  locked  for  the  children  mustent  see  the  tree 
until  Santa  Claus  comes.  That  mistletoe  must  be  put  over  the  parlor 
pictures.     Hunt  up  a  few  more  eggs  if  you  can  find  them.     Don't 


The  Farm  and  The  Fhieside.  185 

disturb  the  mince  pies  in  the  closet — never  mind  about  that  either,  for 
I've  got  the  key  in  my  pocket." 

It  always  did  seem  to  me  that  ours  was  the  noisiest,  liveliest  and 
most  restless  set  that  ever  stumped  a  toe  or  fell  into  the  branch.  They 
-went  through  the  measles,  and  the  whoopin'  cough,  and  chicken  pox, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  more  things,  without  stoppin'  to  see  what 
was  the  matter.  A  long  time  ago  it  was  my  opinion  that  I  could  reg- 
ulate 'em  and  raise  'em  up  accordin'  to  science,  but  I  dident  find  that 
amount  of  co-operation  which  was  necessary  to  make  a  fair  experi- 
ment. On  the  contrary,  I  found  myself  regulated,  besides  being  from 
time  to  time  reminded  by  their  maternal  ancestor  that  the  children 
were  hern,  and  to  this  day  she  always  speaks  of  'em  as  "my  children. 
'Well,  that's  a  fact ;  her  title  is  mighty  good  to  'em  I  know,  and  on 
reflection  I  don't  remember  to  have  ever  heard  any  dispute  about  who 
^as  the  mother  of  a  child. 

Well,  we  can  sing  the  same  old  song — how  the  little  folks  had  lived 
■on  tip-toe  for  many  days  waiting  for  Santa  Claus,  and  how  that  umble 
parlor  was  dressed  in  cedar  and  mistletoe,  and  the  big  back  log  put 
on,  and  the  blazing  fire  built  up,  and  the  little  stockings  hung  by  the 
mantel,  and  everything  got  ready  for  the  kind  old  gentleman.  How 
that  blue-eyed  daughter  played  deputy  to  him,  and  was  the  keeper  of 
everybody's  secret;  and  shutting  herself  up  in  the  parlor,  arranged 
everything  to  her  notion.  How  that  when  supper  was  over  one  of  the 
boys  slipped  up  the  ladder  to  the  top  of  the  house  with  his  cornet  and 
tooted  a  few  merry  notes  as  the  signal  that  Santa  Claus  had  arrived. 
Then  came  the  infantile  squeal,  and  the  youthful  yell,  and  the  Arpian 
shriek,  and  all  rushed  in  wild  commotion  to  the  festive  hall.  Then 
came  the  joyful  surprises,  all  mixed  up  with  smiles  and  sunbeams,  and 
exclamations  and  interjections.  Tumultuous  gladness  gleamed  and 
glistened  all  around,  and  the  big  bucket  of  family  joy  ran  over.  But 
everybody  knows  how  it  is  hisself,  and  don't  hanker  after  a  history  of 
other  people's  frolics. 

Well,  the  old  year  has  buried  its  dead,  and  brought  forth  its  living 
to  take  their  places.  And  the  time  is  at  hand  when  everybody  is 
going  to  open  a  new  set  of  books,  and  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  pass 
a  few  resolutions  to  be  kept  about  three  weeks.  That's  all  right.  Keep 
*em  as  long  as  you  can,  but  don't  repent  of  this  year's  sins  too  much 
at  once.     Don't  get  too  much  religion  at  a  revival,  for  by  and  by  the 


186  The  Farm  and  The  Fieesede. 

snow  will  be  gone,  and  the  spring  will  open  and  the  birds  begin  to 
sing  and  the  flowers  to  bloom  and  man's  conceit  and  independence 
come  back  to  him  and  make  him  forget  the  winter  and  his  promises, 
and  strut  around  like  he  was  running  the  whole  macheen.  But  it's 
all  right,  judge,  all  right,  as  Cobe  says.  If  a  man  is  good  accordin' 
to  his  capacity  he  can't  be  any  gooder. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  187 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


Democratic  PRmciPLEs. 

How  sweet  axe  the  sounds  from  home.  How  soothing  the  conso- 
eolations  of  a  discerning  wife.  I  was  feeling  bad  and  she  knew  it. 
My  cogitations  over  the  election  news  were  by  no  means  jubilant. 
Silent  and  sad,  with  the  newspaper  open  on  my  knee,  I  had  been  look- 
ing dreamily  at  the  flickering  flames  for  about  ten  minutes  while  INIrs. 
Arp  sat  near  me  sewing  a  patch  on  a  pair  of  little  breeches,  when 
suddenly  she  inquired: 

""What  did  you  expect  Mr.  Cleveland  to  do  for  you?" 

"Nothing,"  said  I,  "nothing  at  all;  but  then  you  see,  my  dear,  its 
highly  important  that  a  Democrat  should  be  at  the  head  of  the 
nation." 

She  never  looked  up  nor  for  a  moment  stopped  the  graceful  jerk  of 
her  needle  and  thread  as  she  again  inquired : 

"And  what  would  a  Democratic  President  do  for  you?" 

"Well,  nothing — nothing  at  all,"  said  I,  "but  then  you  see  I  feel 
interested  in  the  success  of  our  party  and  the  promulgation  of  the 
great  general  principles  of  the  Democracy.  They  are  the  hope  of  the 
country — the — the" 

"Please  tell  me  something  about  those  great  principles,"  said  she; 
"what  are  they?" 

""Why,  my  dear,  the  great  principles  of  our  party  are — they — are 
— they — why  they  are  as  old  as  the  government.  They  underlie  the 
foundation  of  Democratic  institutions — they" — 

"But  what  are  they?"  said  she. 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  I,  "when  Thomas  Jefierson  was 
President  he  eliminated  and  set  forth  those  principles  in  a  series  of 
state  papers  that  have  established  in  the  mind  of  American  patriots  a 
reverence  for  democratic  gcvernment  that" — 

"But  what  are  the  principles?"  said  she. 

"Well  as  I  was  going  on  to  say,  the  democratic  institutions  of  our 
country  have  contributed  more  to  the  peservation  of  life,  liberty  and 
happiness  than  all  other  causes  combined  ;  indeed  the  benefits  that  is 
adherent  partake  of  are — they  are" — 

"Justification,  adoption,  and  sanctification,"  said  she. 


188  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

"No,  not  exactly;  not  to  that  pious  extent,"  said  I.  "An  enumer- 
ation of  all  those  great  principles  would  require  more  time  than — 
than—" 

"Well,  nevermind,  William,  never  mind,"  said  she  affectionately,  "I 
don't  want  to  take  up  your  valuable  time,  but  I've  been  suspecting, 
for  a  long  time,  that  those  principles  were  to  get  in  office  and  draw 
big  salaries,  and  live  high  without  work,  and  I  reckon  one  party  can 
do  that  about  as  well  as  another;  don't  you  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  my  dear;  there  is,  I  confess,  some  foundation  for  your 
suspicions ;  but  then,  you  see,  we  are  trying  to  nationalize  the  Ameri- 
can people  through  a  national  party,  and  become  once  more  in  frater- 
nal union,  and — " 

"Well,  you  can't  do  that,  William,"  said  she.  "They  never  did 
like  us  and  we  never  did  like  them.  We  needn't  have  any  more  war, 
but  we  can  be  stately  and  distant  like  we  have  to  be  with  nabors  that 
are  not  congenial.  If  I  was  you  I'd  let  national  politics,  as  you  call 
it,  alone,  for  it's  a  jack  o'lantern  business  and  will  never  profit  you. 
Look  after  your  farm  and  your  home  aflairs.  You  had  better  go  out 
now  and  water  the  flowers  in  the  pit,  and  see  where  Carl  and  Jessie 
are.  The  meal  is  nearly  out,  and  you  had  better  shell  a  turn  of  corn 
this  evening,  and  while  you  are  down  there  see  if  the  old  blue  hen 
has  hatched.  Her  time  is  about  up.  Stir  around  awhile  and  don't 
be  looking  so  far  away." 

Blessed  woman  !  I  did  stir  'round,  and  it  made  me  feel  better.  I 
shall  take  no  more  interest  in  national  politics  until — well,  until  the 
next  election.  Consolation  is  a  good  thing.  I'm  going  to  be  recon- 
ciled anyway  and  not  give  up  the  ship.  Reckon  I  can  stay  at  home 
and  make  corn  and  cotton,  and  frolic  with  the  children,  and  ruminate 
on  the  uncertainties  of  life  and  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  family 
queen. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  hankering  after  an  office,"  said  she,  "and  that 
would  take  you  away  from  home  and  leave  me  and  the  children  alone. 
Office  is  a  poor  thing;  when  a  man  gets  one,  everybody  is  envious  of 
him,  and  he  has  to  give  away  about  half  his  salary  to  keep  his  popu- 
larity. We've  got  a  good  home,  and  we  are  getting  along  in  years, 
and  I  think  we  had  better  stay  here,  and  be  as  happy  as  Ave  can.  Don't 
you,  John  Anderson,  my  Joe?"  and  she  placed  her  little  soft  hand  so 
gently  and  lovingly  on  my  frosty  brow,  my  reverend  head,  that  I 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE.  18^ 

havent  thought  about  office  since.  I'm  going  to  camp  right  here. 
Dr.  Talmage  has  been  preaching  a  sermon  lately  on  married  folks, 
and  he  says  it's  the  way  the  women  do  that  drives  their  husbands  off 
at  night  to  the  club  houses,  and  the  stores,  and  the  loafing  places  about 
town ;  says  they  don't  sweeten  up  on  'em  like  they  did  before  they  was 
married — don't  come  to  the  door  to  meet  'em — don't  play  the  piano, 
but  sorter  give  up,  and  are  always  complaining  about  something,  or 
scolding  the  children  or  the  servants.  Well,  maybe  that's  so  to  some 
extent,  but  my  observation  is  that  most  of  them  fellers  went  to  the 
club-houses  and  loafed  around  before  they  were  married.  I've  knowed 
men  to  quit  home  and  go  up  town  every  night  because  they  said  they 
was  in  the  way  while  the  children  were  being  washed  and  put  to  bed. 
My  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  taught  me  a  long  time  ago  that  a  man  could  per- 
form those  little  offices  about  as  well  as  a  woman,  and  if  they  are  his 
children  he  ought  to  be  willing  to  do  it.  There  the  poor  woman  sits 
and  sews  and  nurses  the  little  chaps  all  the  day  long,  tieing  up  the  cut 
fingers  and  stumped  toes,  and  doctoring  the  little  tooth-ache,  and  leg- 
ache,  and  stomach-ache,  and  fixen  'em  something  to  eat,  and  helping 
'em  in  a  thousand  little  ways — while  the  lord  of  the  house  is  chatting 
with  his  customers  or  sitting  in  his  office  with  his  feet  upon  a  table  or 
against  the  mantel-piece,  and  another  feller  just  like  him  is  doing  the 
same  thing,  and  they  talk,  and  swap  lies,  and  laugh,  and  carry  on, 
and  it's  "ha,  ha,  ha,"  and  "he,  he,  he,"  and  "ho,  ho,  ho;"  and  about 
dark  he  stretches  and  yawns  and  says,  ""Well,  I  must  go  home;  it's 
about  my  supper  time,"  and  brother  Talmage  wants  his  poor  wife  to 
be  a  watching  at  the  window,  and  when  she  sees  him  coming  she  must 
run  out  and  meet  him  'twixt  the  house  and  the  gate,  and  kiss  him 
on  his  old  smoky  lips  and  say,  "Oh,  my  dear,  my  darling,  I'm  so  glad 
you  have  come."  Well,  that's  all  right,  I  reckon,  if  a  woman  ain't 
got  nothing  else  to  think  about  but  fitting  herself  for  heaven,  but  to 
my  opinion  a  man  ought  to  go  home  a  little  sooner  than  he  does,  and 
take  a  little  more  interest  in  things  when  he  gets  there. 

Women  are  a  heap  better  than  men  if  they  have  half  a  chance. 
They  were  created  better.  They  begin  the  world  better  in  their 
infancy  Little  girls  don't  go  round  throwing  rocks  at  birds  and 
shooting  sling-shots  at  the  chickens  and  running  the  calves  all  over  the 
lot  and  setting  the  dogs  on  the  barn  cats  and  breaking  up  pigeons'  nests 
and  all  that.     Never  saw  a  boy  that  didn't  want  to  shoot  a  gun  and 


.190  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside, 

iill  something.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  these  kind,  tender  hearted 
^irls  -will  have  anything  to  do  with  'em,  but  it  seems  like  they  will, 
And  I  reckon  it's  all  right,  but  if  I  was  a  young  marryin'  woman  I 
would  be  mighty  particular  about  mating  with  a  feller  round  town  who 
"belonged  to  half  a  dozen  societies  of  one  sort  or  another  and  was  out 
every  night.  If  I  wanted  a  man  all  to  myself  I  would  look  out  for 
some  farmer  boy  who  would  take  me  to  the  country  where  there  ain't 
no  clubs  or  Masonic  lodge  or  Odd  Fellows  or  Knights  of  Honor  or 
Pythias  or  Scylla  or  Charybdis,  or  fire  companies,  or  brass  bands,  or 
mardi  gras,  or  pate  defoi  gras.  I'd  force  him  to  love  me  whether  he 
wanted  to  or  not,  for  there  wouldn't  be  anything  to  distract  his  atten- 
tion. But  then,  if  a  girl  wants  to  fly  round  and  be  everybody's  gal, 
and  have  all  sorts  of  a  time,  why  then  she'd  better  marry  in  town. 
It's  all  a  question  of  having  one  good  man  to  love  you,  or  a  dozen 
silly  ones  to  admire.  But  as  I  ain't  a  woman,  I  suppose  it's  none  of 
my  business. 


The  Faem  and  The  Fireside.  191 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


Politics. 


POLITICS   IS   A   HARD     ROAD    TO    TRAVEL. 

Politics  are  pretty  hot,  but  no  hotter  than  they  were  forty-five  years 
ago  between  the  Whigs  and  Democrats.  I  remember  when  Dr. 
Miller,  the  Demosthenes  of  the  mountains,  used  to  follow  Judge 
Lumpkin  on  the  grand  rounds  and  whip  him  in  everything  but  gettin' 
votes ;  when  the  democratic  school  boy  couldent  nigh  kiss  a  whig  girl, 
nor  buck  up  to  her  with  honorable  intentions,  party  spirit  run  high  in 
them  days,  shore.  There  were  party  lawyers  and  doctors,  and  party 
clients  and  patients.  If  a  Democrat  got  sick,  he  was  afeared  a  Whig 
doctor  would  pizon  him,  and  vice  voce.  There  were  party  stores  and 
blacksmith  shops  and  gristmills.  The  line  was  drawn  tite  between 
'em  in  almost  everything,  and  they  hated  one  another. 

I  remember  the  great  Harrison  jubilee,  when  the  Whigs  of  our 
town  fixed  up  for  a  big  torch-light  procession  and  hifalutin'  speech- 
ifyin',  and  sent  down  to  Decatur  and  borrowed  a  cannon,  and  hauled 
it  up  with  four  yoke  of  oxen,  and  was  to  fire  it  all  day  to  make  the 
Democrats  feel  just  as  bad  as  possible,  and  that  night  it  poured  down 
rain  in  great  sluices,  and  ten  of  the  Democrat  boys  stole  the  cannon 
out  of  a  back  yard  and  dragged  it  oflf  about  two  miles  and  hid  it  in  a 
swamp,  and  the  rain  put  out  all  the  tracks  before  day.  I've  seen  a 
heap  of  mad  critters  in  my  life  and  hearn  tell  of  some,  but  nothin' 
was  ever  more  madder  than  them  Whig  boys  the  next  mornin'.  They 
ripped  and  raved,  and  snorted,  and  cavorted,  and  tore  'round  like 
wildcats  and  hunted  everywhere,  and  sent  off  after  some  track  dogs, 
but  that  cannon  wasent  found.  It  dident  come  to  light  until  the  next 
Democratic  victory,  when  one  dark  night  it  went  off*  right  in  the  mid- 
'dle  of  the  town  and  like  to  have  skeered  everybody  to  death,  but 
Bobody  know'd  how  it  got  there  or  who  fired  it.  Well,  I  tell  you, 
them  Whigs  did  hate  powerfully  to  haul  that  gun  back  to  Decatur, 


192  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

sHore.  Ask  Luster  if  they  dident,  and  some  of  these  days,  after  he 
is  elected,  ask  him  in  a  confidential  way  Avho  stole  it.  But  don't  you 
tell  Dr.  Jim  Alexander,  nor  his  brother  Tom,  for  I  don't  know 
exactly  how  long  it  takes  'em  to  get  over  that  sort  of  a  thing. 

It  dident  matter  much  in  them  days  whether  a  man  was  a  Methodist 
or  a  Baptist,  honest  or  tricky ;  whether  he  was  smart  or  sorter  thick- 
headed, but  it  did  matter  a  good  deal  whether  he  was  a  AVhig  or  a 
Democrat.  "When  Polk  was  nominated  everybody  was  waitin'  for  the 
news,  and  as  soon  as  the  postmaster  jerked  the  wrapper  off  the  news- 
paper and  read  it  out  to  the  crowd,  Nic  Omberg  threw  up  his  hat  and 
said  he  was  the  very  best  man  they  could  have  nominated,  and  then 
leaned  over  and  asked  the  postmaster  what  he  said  his  name  was. 
Omberg  was  a  fair  sample  of  all  of  'em.  He  was  a  good  man  and  a 
devoted  Democrat,  and  it  would  have  been  all  the  same  to  him  if  they 
had  nominated  Sam  Patch.  I  don't  suppose  there  was  one  in  a  thou- 
sand could  have  told  the  difference  between  Whig  principles  and  Dem- 
ocratic principles.  The  fact  is,  there  wasent  very  much — none  to 
speak  of,  except  the  spoils  of  office.  They  w^ere  like  folks  are  about 
their  religion.  Mighty  few  can  tell  the  difference  between  one  church, 
and  another  church.  Most  of  'em  are  just  what  their  fathers  were^ 
and  that's  reason  enough  without  botherin'  their  brains  with  any  other. 

If  our  party  ever  gets  in  office  again  we  are  going  to  run  the  politi- 
cal machine  on  merit  and  fitness  and  to  suit  the  people  everywhere. 
"We  are  not  going  to  turn  a  good  man  out  just  because  he  is  a  Eepub- 
lican.  If  the  community  he  lives  in  are  satisfied  with  him  we  will  let 
him  stay.  We  will  make  a  few  more  offices  and  raise  all  the  salaries 
a  little,  I  reckon,  for  our  people  are  mighty  poor  and  powerful  hun- 
gry, and  have  waited  long.  We  are  going  to  give  protection  to  the 
manufacturers  and  free  trade  to  the  consumers.  We  are  going  to  buy 
the  farmers'  corn  at  a  dollar  a  bushel,  and  sell  it  to  the  poor  for  twenty- 
five  cents.  We  are  going  to  issue  ten  thousand  millions  of  greenbacks, 
so  that  everybody  can  have  a  hat  full,  and  then  we  Avill  build  rail- 
roads to  every  town  and  open  all  the  creeks  and  mackadamize  all  the 
roads,  and  give  all  soldiers  and  widows  and  orphans  pensions,  and 
have  a  general  jubilee  all  over  the  country.  I  am  going  to  set  Cobe 
up  in  a  phaton  behind  a  spanking  team  just  to  see  him  ride  and  bob 
up  serenely  as  it  springs  up  and  down  over  the  bumps  in  the  road. 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsmE.  193 

I'll  bet  you  couldn't  drag  Cobe  iuto  a  pluiton  with  a  steam  engine.  He 
has  got  a  little  old  truck  wagon  and  won't  even  put  a  plank  across  the 
body  for  fear  of  getting  sea  sick,  but  he  just  sets  down  in  the  bed  and 
goes  singing  along : 

Old  Eve  she  did  an  apple  pull, 
And  then  she  filled  her  apron  full ; 
Old  Adam  he  came  bobbing  around 
And  spied  the  peelings  on  the  ground. 

Old  Noah  he  did  build  an  ark, 
Of  white  oak  splits  and  hickory  bark ; 
The  animals  they  come  in  two  by  two, 
The  elephant  and  the  kangaroo. 

And  then  they  come  in  three  by  three, 
'Possom  and  coon  and  bumble  bee ; 
Old  Noah  kicked  his  old  tom  cat 
For  not  diskiverin  ara  rat. 

And  ever  and  anon  he  punches  his  claybank  mule  and  says,  ^^  Peg 
along,  Tatum." 

But  a  nice  little  office  under  the  State  is  a  good  thing,  and  gener- 
ally lasts  a  long  time,  for  our  people  are  kind  and  considerate  and 
don't  turn  folks  out  lor  nothing.  I  wouldent  mind  having  an  office 
that  was  a  sort  of  a  "sine  qua  non,"  as  old  Major  Dade  called  it — an 
office  with  good,  fair  pay  and  not  much  to  do  but  boss.  I  always  did 
like  to  boss.  Bossing  comes  natural  to  the  Anglo-Saxon.  They  like 
it.  A  few  years  ago  the  Rome  railroad  let  out  a  contract  for  a  thou- 
sand cords  of  wood  to  two  fellers  and  they  sub-let  it  in  jobs  to  eight 
other  fellers,  and  they  sub-let  it  again  to  some  niggers,  and  there  was 
ten  darkeys  doing  the  work  and  ten  white  men  bossing  the  job,  and 
all  of  'em  made  some  money  out  of  it  and  were  happy — so  that  was 
all  right  all  round,  but  I  much  rather  play  boss  than  darkey.  Hadent 
you? 


194  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  X:CXIX. 


Harvest  Time. 

The  harvest  has  begun.  The  harvest  sun  is  shining  by  day  and  the 
moon  by  night.  Our  Burt  oats,  that  we  sowed  in  March,  have  come 
in  ahead  of  the  wheat  and  are  falling  before  the  cradle  blade.  It  is  a 
charming  scene.  The  good,  old-fashioned  way  is  not  a  bad  way  after 
all.  I've  got  a  reaper  and  shall  use  it  in  the  low  grounds  on  the 
wheat,  but  the  everlasting  rains  this  spring  made  too  many  little  ruts 
and  furrows  on  the  upland,  and  the  cradles  are  better.  The  machine 
jolts  and  bumps  around  so  that  Ealph  could  hardly  keep  his  seat. 
But  the  oats  are  good.  I  have  never  seen  a  better  upland  crop.  Carl 
and  Jessie  follow  along  in  the  wake  of  the  cradlers  and  tie  up  their  lit- 
tle bundles,  and  when  they  get  tired  of  that  they  pile  them  into  doz- 
ens, set  them  up  into  shocks  and  are  proud  of  their  work.  "What  a 
pity  it  is  that  we  can't  all  make  play  of  our  work.  How  fond  the 
children  are  of  trying  to  do  grown  folks'  work.  Caid  wants  a  little 
cradle  to  reap  with  and  thinks  he  could  do  it  splendid,  but  it  most  kills 
him  to  take  a  bucket  of  water  to  the  field.  That  sore  on  his  foot 
where  he  snagged  it  on  a  nail  hurts  awful  bad  then,  and  he  limps  all 
the  way  to  the  spring  and  back,  but  he  can  trot  to  the  dewberry  patch 
or  the  mulberry  tree  as  lively  and  gay  as  a  colt  in  the  meadow. 
Grown  folks  are  that  way,  too.  I've  known  some  mighty  nice 
girls  get  tired,  most  broke  down  cleaning  up  the  house,  cooking, 
sewing  and  the  like,  but  they  could  wake  up  to  the  music  that 
night  and  dance  till  the  rooster  crowed  for  morning.  We  can  all 
do  what  we  want  to  do,  and  we  go  at  it  with  alacrity.  It  is 
easier  to  go  to  a  picnic  than  it  is  to  church.  But  labor  and  toil  has 
a  sweet  reward.  We  will  never  reap  if  we  do  not  sow.  The  harvest 
that  is  now  at  hand  is  one  of  the  great  lessons  of  life,  for  our  life  is 
like  a  field  and  our  years  like  the  acres,  and  our  months  and  weeks 
and  days  and  minutes  are  the  roods  and  rods  and  yards  and  feet  which 
sub-divide  the  whole.     Some  portions  are  well  sown  and  tended  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  195 

some  are  not,  but  a  good  man  ^vill  make  an  average  crop.  We  may 
fail  here  and  tliere,  and  have  our  little  sins  and  weaknesses,  but  at  the 
last  a  man  must  be  measured  by  his  average  crop.  Character  is  not 
made  or  lost  in  a  day  or  a  Aveek,  but  it  takes  a  life  and  we  can  never 
write  a  true  epitaph  until  this  life  is  closed  and  we  write  it  on  the 
tomb. 

But  a  few  days  ago  the  fields  were  beautifully  green,  and  the  grain 
bent  its  proud  heads  gracefully  before  the  gentle  breeze  and  seemed 
conscious  of  its  life  and  health  and  consequence.  It  reminded  me  of 
man  in  his  prime,  moving  to  and  fro  ujion  the  earth  acquiring  wealth 
■or  fame  or  pleasure,  and  all  unmindful  of  the  reaper.  But  soon  he 
ripens  and  must  fall  and  make  way  for  another  crop.  If  the  proud 
has  born  fruit  golden  fruit,  it  is  well,  and  his  mission  in  life  is  accom- 
plished ;  but  if  clogged  aud  tangled  and  corrupted  with  cheat  and 
cockle  and  smut  aud  rust  and  brambles,  the  crop  is  a  failure  and  ought 
to  have  been  cut  down  while  it  was  green. 

I  had  worked  hard  all  the  morning  helping  Mrs.  Arp  take  up  her 
•carpets  for  the  summer.  The  hay  and  dust  that  was  under  had  to  be 
swept  up  ever  so  gently — yes,  gently —  that  was  the  word  she  used — 
"gently,  now,  William;  you  are  raising  the  dust  and  it  will  be  all 
over  the  house.  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry — gently."  I  got  it  all  up 
a,fter  a  fashion  and  put  out  of  the  window  in  the  wheelbarrow,  and 
put  the  carpets  on  the  fence  ready  for  beating,  and  then  I  took  her 
long  handled  broom  and  swept  the  walls,  and  the  ceiling,  and  the  cor- 
nices, and  behind  the  pictures,  and  then  our  chunk  of  a  darkey 
brought  water  and  washed  u])  the  floors,  and  the  girls  worked  on  the 
bedsteads  with  kerosene  and  turpentine  and  corrosive  sublumate  and 
rat  poison  and  damnation  powder,  and  I  don't  know  what  all,  and  this 
morning  when  ray  wife  was  making  up  her  bed  aud  lifted  up  the  cor- 
ner of  the  mattress  she  discovered  one  of  the  biggest,  fattest  ones  you 
ever  saw,  and  her  heart  sank  down  within  her  aud  she  reclined  on  a 
chair  in  despair.  I  was  sorry  for  her,  I  was,  for  the  pesky  varmints  are 
her  eternal  horror,  and  if  I  was  rich  I  would  build  her  a  brand  new 
house  and  fill  it  with  brand  new  furniture,  all  made  of  china  wood  or 
camphor  wood.  I  care  nothing  about  these  silent  perambula- 
tors myself,  and  it  has  been  hinted  to  me  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion that  it  is  because  I  am  tough  and  old  and  alligatorish,  which  I 
reckon  is  so,  though  I  do  know  some  women  who  are  no  spring  chick- 


196  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE. 

ens  themselves.  But  I  do  sufler  from  the  varmints  anyhow,  and  have 
my  sleep  broken,  for  sometimes  I  have  to  get  up  in  the  night  aud  help 
search  for  them,  and  when  found  I  assume  a  theatrical  attitude  and 
exclaim  in  the  beautiful  language  of  Mr.  Shakspeaz*e  :  "How  now,, 
ye  secret,  dark  and  midnight  hags !     What  is  it  ye  do  ?  " 

Well,  I  took  Mrs.  Arp  down  in  the  low  land  wheat  this  evening, 
where  it  is  thick  and  green  and  tall,  and  I  explained  to  her  all  about 
wheat  being  first  in  the  boot  and  then  in  the  milk  and  then  in  the 
dough,  and  as  we  walked  along  in  a  water  furrow  I  said  it  reminded 
me  of  the  old  song  of  "Coming  Through  the  Eye,"  that  I  would 
change  it  a  little,  and  say : 

If  a  body  meet  a  body  coming  through  the  wheat, 
And  a  body  kiss  a  body,  wouldent  it  be  sweet. 

And  she  smiled  and  said  the  rye  of  the  poet  was  not  a  field  but  sl 
rocky  branch  named  Rye,  and  the  lassie  was  wading  through  it  when 
her  lover  met  her  on  the  rocks  and  kissed  her.  So  that  knocked  all 
the  poetry  out  of  the  situation,  and  I  said  no  more  on  the  subject. 
I've  seen  the  day  when  that  wheat  field  would  have  been  as  good  a 
place  for  the  business  as  a  branch,  and  if  anything,  better.  While  we 
sauntered  along  old  Bob  White  was  whistling  to  his  loving  mate,  and 
we  talked  over  the  days  of  our  childhood,  when  we  used  to  follow  the 
reapers  in  the  field  and  get  the  partridge  eggs  from  the  nests,  and  have 
a  big  frolic  over  them  when  they  were  boiled,  and  how  we  caught  the 
young  rabbits  in  their  nest,  and  how  everything  was  so  fresh  and 
bright  and  rosy,  and  now  how  serious  and  earnest  everything  had 
become.  Such  is  life  and  we  cannot  help  it,  and  I  don't  want  to  help 
it.  No  matter  how  old  or  how  poor,  there  is  some  happiness  for  us 
all  if  we  will  find  it.  The  trouble  with  most  of  us  is  we  search  for  it 
too  far  away — away  ofi"  yonder  somewhere  when  it  is  right  near  us. 
Yes,  within  our  reach,  if  we  will  only  see  it.  "Carpe  diem,"  says 
the  poet — "enjoy  the  day."  Enjoy  to-day  and  every  day  as  it  comes, 
and  don't  let  old  father  time  cheat  us  out  of  a  moment. 


TiiE  Fakm  and  The  FiiiEaiDE.  197 


CHAPTER  XL. 


The  Old  and  the  New. 

The  aristocracy  of  the  South  was,  before  the  war,  mainly  an  aris- 
tocracy of  dominion.  The  control  of  servants  or  employees  is 
naturally  elevating  and  ennobling,  much  more  so  than  the  mere  pos- 
session of  other  property.  The  Scriptures  always  mention  the  num- 
ber of  servants  when  speaking  of  a  patriarch's  censequence  in  the 
land.  This  kind  of  aristocracy  brought  with  it  culture  and  dignity  of 
bearing.  Dominion  dignifies  a  man  just  as  it  did  in  the  days  of  the 
centurion  who  said,  "I  say  unto  this  man  go,  and  he  goeth,  and  to 
another  come,  and  he  cometh."  Dominion  is  the  pride  of  a  man — 
•dominion  over  something.  A  negro  is  proud  if  he  owns  a  possum 
dog,  and  can  make  him  come  and  go  at  his  pleasure.  A  poor  man  is 
proud  if  he  owns  a  horse  and  a  cow,  and  some  razor-back  hogs.  The 
thrifty  farmer  is  proud  if  he  owns  some  bottom  land  and  a  good  horse 
and  top  buggy,  and  can  take  the  lead  in  his  country  church  and  country 
politics.  The  big  boy  loves  dominion  over  his  little  brother,  and  the 
father  over  all.  But  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  stock  aspires  to  a  higher 
degree  of  mastery.  They  glory  in  owning  men,  and  it  makes  but  lit- 
tle difference  whether  the  men  are  their  dependents  or  their  slaves. 
The  glory  is  all  the  same  if  they  have  them  in  their  power.  Wealthy 
corporations  and  railroad  kings  and  princely  planters  have  dominion 
over  their  employees,  and  regulate  them  at  their  pleasure.  It  is  not  a 
dominion  in  law,  but  is  almost  absolute  in  fact,  and  there  is  nothing 
wrong  or  oppressive  about  it  when  it  is  humanely  exercised.  In  fact, 
it  is  generally  an  agreeable  relation  between  the  poor  laborer  and  the 
rich  employer.  An  humble  poor  man,  Avith  a  lot  of  little  children 
coming  on,  loves  to  lean  upon  a  generous  landlord,  and  the  landlord 
is  proud  of  the  poor  man's  homage. 

The  genuine  Bill  Arp  used  to  say  he  had  rather  belong  to  Col. 
Johnson  than  be  free,  for  he  had  lived  on  the  Colonel's  land  for 


198  The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside. 

twenty  years,  and  his  wife  and  children  have  never  suffered,  crop  or 
no  crop;  for  the  Colonel's  wife  threw  away  enough  to  support  them,, 
and  they  were  always  nigh  enough  to  pick  it  up. 

He  was  asked  one  day  how  he  was  going  to  vote,  and  replied:  "I 
don't  know  until  I  ax  Colonel  Johnson,  and  I  don't  recon  he  can  tell 
me  till  he  sees  Judge  Underwood,  and  maybe  Underwood  won't 
know  till  he  hears  from  Aleck  Stephens,  but  who  in  the  dickens  tells 
little  Aleck  how  to  vote  I'll  be  dogged  if  I  know." 

The  dominion  of  the  old  aristocracy  of  the  South  was  not  over 
their  own  race,  as  it  was  at  the  North,  but  over  another,  and  it  was 
absolute  both  in  law  and  fact. 

Hence  it  naturally  grew  into  an  oligarchy  of  slave-owners,  and  the 
poorer  whites  were  kept  under  the  ban.  There  was  a  line  of  social 
caste  between  them,  and  it  was  widening  into  a  gulf,  for  the  poor 
white  man  could  not  compete  with  slave  labor,  any  more  than  the 
farmer  or  mechanic  can  now  compete  with  convict  labor.  This  kind 
of  slave  aristocracy  gave  dignity  and  leisure  to  the  rich ;  and  Solomon 
says  that  in  leisure  there  is  wisdom ;  and  so  these  men  became  our 
statesmen  and  jurists  and  law-makers,  and  they  were  shining  lights  in 
the  councils  of  the  nation;  but  it  was  an  aristocracy  that  was 
exclusive,  and  it  shut  out  and  overshadowed  the  masses  of  the  com- 
mon people,  like  a  broad  spreading  oak  overshadows  and  withers  the 
undergrowth  beneath  it. 

But  now  there  are  only  two  general  classes  of  people  at  the  South 
— those  who  have  seen  better  days  and  those  who  havent.  The  first 
class  used  to  ride  and  drive,  but  most  of  them  now  take  it  a-foot  or 
stay  at  home.  Seventy-five  per  cent,  of  them  are  the  families  of  old 
Henry  Clay  Whigs.  Thirty-five  years  ago  they  were  the  patrons  of  high 
schools  and  colleges,  and  stocked  the  learned  professions  with  an 
annual  crop  of  high-strung  graduates,  who  swore  by  Henry  Clay,  and 
Fillmore,  and  Stephens,  and  Toombs,  and  John  Bell,  and  the  Code  of 
Honor.  They  were  proud  of  their  birth  and  lineage,  their  wealth  and 
culture,  and  when  party  spirit  ran  high  and  fierce  they  banded  to- 
gether against  the  pretensions  of  the  struggling  Democracy.  When  I 
was  a  young  man,  a  Whig  girl  deemed  it  an  act  of  amiable  conde- 
scension to  go  to  a  party  with  a  Democratic  boy.  But  the  wear  and 
tear  of  the  war,  the  loss  of  their  slaves,  and  a  mortgage  or  two  to  lift, 
broke  most  of  these  old  families  up,  though  it  didn't  break  down  their 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  199' 

family  pride.  They  couldn't  stand  it  like  the  Democrats,  who  lived  in 
log  cabins,  and  wore  wool  hats  and  copperas  breeches. 

I  speak  with  freedom  of  the  old  Georgia  Democracy,  for  I  was  one 
of  them.  The  wealth  and  refinement  of  the  State  was  in  the  main 
centered  in  that  party  known  as  the  old-line  Whigs.  Out  of  IGO 
students  in  our  State  University,  45  years  ago,  130  of  them  were  the 
sons  of  Whigs.  I  felt  politically  lonesome  in  their  society,  and  was 
just  going  over  to  the  Whig  party  when  I  fell  in  love  with  a  little 
Whig  angel  who  was  flying  around.  This  hurried  me  up,  and  I  was 
just  about  to  go  over  to  that  party,  when  suddenly  the  party  came 
over  to  me.  I  don't  know  yet  whether  that  political  somersault  lifted 
me  up  or  pulled  the  little  angel  down — but  I  do  know  she  Avouldn't 
have  me,  and  at  last  I  mated  with  a  Democratic  seraph  who  had 
either  more  piety  or  less  discriminaiion.  She  took  me,  and  she's  got 
me  yet;  she  surrendered,  but  I  am  the  prisoner. 

These  grand  old  gentlemen  of  the  olden  time  were  the  pioneers  in 
all  the  great  enterprises  of  their  day.  They  sowed  the  seed  and  we 
are  reaping  the  harvest.  They  planted  the  tree  and  we  are  gathering 
the  fruit.  They  laid  the  foundations  of  the  proud  structure  of  our 
commonwealth,  and  we  have  built  upon  it.  My  good  old  father  took 
$5,000  of  stock  in  the  Georgia  Railroad  before  it  was  built.  He  kept 
it  for  twelve  years  without  a  dividend,  and  when  financial  embarrass- 
ment overtook  him  the  stock  was  down  at  its  lowest  point,  and  he  sold 
it  to  Judge  Hutchins  at  S27  a  share.  There  was  a  gloom  over  the 
family  that  night,  but  I  tried  to  disperse  it,  for  I  told  them  I  had 
just  made  a  matrimonial  arrangement  with  tlie  judge's  daughter,  and 
maybe  the  stock  matter  would  come  out  all  right;  and  it  did.  I  got 
it  all  back  for  nothing,  and  the  judge's  lovely  daughter  to  boot,  and 
it  was  the  best  trade  I  ever  made  in  my  life. 

Most  of  these  old  families  are  poor;  but  they  are  proud.  They  are 
highly  respected  for  their  manners  and  their  culture.  They  are 
looked  upon  as  good  stock,  and  thoroughbred,  but  withdrawn  from 
the  turf.  Their  daughters  carry  a  high  head  and  a  flashing  eye,  stand 
up  square  on  their  pastern  joints,  and  chafe  under  the  bit.  They 
come  just  as  nigh  living  as  they  used  to  as  they  possibly  can.  They 
dress  neatly  in  plain  clothes,  wear  starched  collars  and  corsets,  and  a 
perfumed  handkerchief.  They  do  up  their  hair  in  the  fashion,  take 
Godey's  Lady's  Book  or  somebody's  Bazaar,     If  they  are  able  to  hire  a 


200  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

domestic,  the  darkey  finds  out  in  two  nainutes  that  free  niggers  don't  rank 
any  higher  in  that  family  than  slaves  used  to.  The  negroes  who  know 
their  antecedents  have  the  highest  respect  for  them,  and  will  say  Mas' 
William  or  Miss  Julia  with  the  same  deference  as  in  former  days.  One 
-would  hardly  learn  from  their  general  deportment  that  they  cleaned 
up  the  house,  made  up  the  beds,  -washed  the  dishes,  did  their  own 
sewing  and  gave  music  lessons — in  fact,  did  most  everything  but  wash 
the  family  clothes.  They  won't  do  that.  I've  known  them  to  milk 
and  churn,  and  sweep  the  back  yard,  and  scour  the  brass,  but  I've 
never  seen  one  of  them  bent  over  the  wash-tub  yet,  and  I  hope  I 
never  will.  I  don't  like  to  see  any  one  reduced  below  their  position, 
especially  if  they  were  born  and  raised  to  it.  In  the  good  old  times 
their  rich  and  patriarchal  father  lived  like  Abraham,  and  Jacob,  and 
Job.  They  felt  like  they  were  running  an  unlimited  monarchy  ou  a 
limited  scale.  When  a  white  child  was  born  in  the  family  it  was  ten 
dollars  out  of  pocket,  but  a  little  nigger  was  a  hundred  dollars  in,  and 
got  fifty  dollars  a  year  better  for  twenty  years  to  come. 

The  economy  of  the  old  plantation  was  the  economy  of  waste.  Two 
servants  to  one  white  person  was  considered  moderate  and  reasonable. 
In  a  family  of  eight  or  ten — with  numerous  visitors  and  some  poor 
kin — there  -were  generally  a  head  cook  and  her  assistant,  a  chamber- 
maid, a  seamstress,  a  maid  or  nurse  for  every  daughter  and  a  little  nig 
for  every  son,  whose  business  it  was  to  trot  around  after  him  and  hunt 
up  mischief.  Then  there  -was  the  stableman  and  carriage  driver  and 
the  gardener  and  the  dairy  woman  and  two  little  darkies  to  drive  up 
the  cows  and  keep  the  calves  off*  while  the  milking  was  going  on. 
Besides  these  there  were  generally  half  a  dozen  little  chaps  crawling 
around  or  picking  up  chips,  and  you  could  hear  them  bawling  and 
squalling  all  the  day  long,  as  their  mothers  mauled  them  and  spanked 
them  for  something  or  for  nothing  with  equal  ferocity. 

But  the  good  old  plantation  times  are  gone — the  times  when  these 
old  family  servants  felt  an  affectionate  abiding  interest  in  the  family, 
when  our  good  mothers  nursed  their  sick  and  old  helpless  ones,  and 
their  good  mothers  waited  so  kindly  upon  their  "mistis,"  as  they  called 
her,  and  took  care  of  the  little  children  by  day  and  by  night.  Our 
old  black  mammy  was  mighty  dear  to  us  children,  and  we  loved  her, 
for  she  was  always  doing  something  to  please  us,  and  she  screened  us 
from  many  a  whipping.     It  would  seem  an  unnatural  wonder,  but 


The  Farm  and  The  Fiiieside.  201 

nevertheless  it  is  true,  that  these  faithful  old  domestics  loved  their 
master's  children  better  than  their  own,  and  they  showed  it  in  num- 
l)erless  ways  w-ithout  any  hypocrisy.  Our  children  frolicked  with 
theirs,  and  all  played  together  by  day  .and  hunted  together  by  night, 
and  it  beat  the  Arabian  Nights  to  go  to  the  old  darkey's  cabin  of  a 
winter  night  and  hear  him  tell  of  ghosts  and  witches  and  jack-o'-lan- 
terns and  wild  cats  and  grave-j^^ards,  and  we  would  listen  with  faith 
and  admiration  until  we  didn't  dare  look  round,  and  wouldn't  have 
^one  back  to  the  big  house  alone  for  a  world  full  of  gold.  Bonaparte 
said  that  all  men  were  cowards  at  night,  but  I  reckon  it  was  these  old 
darkeys  that  made  us  so,  and  we  have  hardly  recovered  from  it  yet. 
When  I  used  to  go  a-courting  I  had  to  pass  a  grave-yard  in  the  suburbs 
of  the  little  village,  and  it  was  a  test  of  my  devotion  that  I  braved  its 
terrors  on  the  darkest  night  and  set  at  defiance  the  wandering  spirits 
that  haunted  my  path.  Mrs.  Arp  appreciated  it  then,  for  she  would 
follow  me  to  the  door  when  I  left  and  anxiously  listen  to  my  retiring 
footsteps.  But  now  she  declares  she  could  hear  me  running  up  that 
hill  by  the  grave-yard  like  a  fast-trotting  pony  on  a  shell  road. 

It  was  a  blessed  privilege  to  the  boys  of  that  day  to  go  along  with 
the  cotton  wagons  to  Augusta,  or  to  Macon  or  Columbus,  and  camp 
out  at  night  and  hear  the  trusty  old  wagoners  tell  their  wonderful 
adventures,  and  it  was  a  glorious  time  when  they  got  back  home  again, 
and  brought  sugar  and  coffee  and  molasses,  and  had  shoes  all  'round 
for  both  white  and  black,  and  the  little  wooden  measures  in  them,  with 
the  names  written  upon  every  one.  They  had  genuine  corn  shuckings 
in  those  days,  and  corn  songs  that  were  honest,  and  sung  with  a  will 
that  beat  a  camp  meeting  chorus — and  they  had  Christmas,  too,  for 
white  folks  and  black  folks.  Little  red  shawls  and  head  handkerchiefs, 
and  jack  knives,  and  jewsharps,  and  tobacco,  and  old-fashioned  jiipes 
were  laid  up  for  the  family  servants,  who  always  managed  to  slip  up 
about  break  of  day  with  a  whisper  of  "  Christmasgif "  before  the 
family  were  fairly  awake.  But  it's  all  over  now — and  they  are  gone. 
Like  Job  of  old  these  proud  old  masters  have  all  been  put  upon  trial,  i 
They  lost  their  noble  sons  in  the  army,  and  their  property  soon  after. 
The  extent  of  their  afflictions  no  one  will  ever  know,  for  the  heart 
knowetb  its  own  bitterness,  but  they  have  long  since  learned  how  to 
suffer  and  be  strong,  J 

I  have  now  in  mind  a  proud  old  family,  living  in  quiet  obscurity — 


202  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

the  children  of  one  of  Georgia's  noblest  governors,  a  statesman  of 
national  reputation.  They  are  poor,  but  they  are  not  subdued.  Their 
children  work  in  the  field  and  milk  the  cows  and  chop  the  firewood, 
but  they  have  never  forgotten  or  dishonored  their  gi-and  old  ancestor 
from  whom  they  sprung.  I  recall  another  one  who,  forty-five  years 
ago,  represented  us  in  the  National  Congress — who  was  for  many  years 
almost  a  monarch  in  his  rule  over  hundreds  of  employees,  and  whose 
draft  was  honored  for  thousands  of  dollars.  With  tottering  gait  and 
trembling  fingers  he  now  bargains  for  a  nickel's  worth  of  soda,  but 
still  is  grand  and  noble  in  his  poverty.  Always  cheerful,  he  welcomes 
those  who  visit  him  with  the  same  kindness  and  dignity  which  charac- 
terized him  in  his  better  days. 

I  believe  the  day  of  prosperity  is  coming  back,  and  the  children  of 
the  present  generation  will  yet  reap  an  inestimable  blessing  from  what 
seemed  to  be  a  great  calamity. 

"Hard  indeed  was  the  contest  for  freedom  and  the  struggle  for 
independence,"  but  harder  still  has  been  the  struggle  of  these  old 
families  to  live  up  to  the  good  old  style  with  nothing  hardly  to  live 
upon.  Society  is  exacting,  and  then  there  were  the  long-indulged 
habits  of  elegance  and  ease  which  are  hard  to  be  broken.  The  young 
can  soon  learn  to  serve  themselves,  but  the  middle-aged  and  old  found 
it  no  labor  of  love  to  begin  life  anew  on  an  humble  scale. 

AMiat  a  change  it  was  to  the  refined  and  dignified  housewife  when 
the  chambermaid  withdrew  and  sit  up  for  herself,  and  the  good  old 
cook,  who  had  grown  fat  and  greasy  with  service,  departed  from  the 
old  homestead  in  search  of  freedom,  and  the  good  lady,  who  was  well 
versed  in  the  theory  of  cooking,  had  to  take  her  first  lesson  in  its 
practice.  The  times  have  wonderfully  changed  since  then — some 
things  for  better,  some  for  worse.  The  grand  old  aristocracy  is  pass- 
ing away.  Some  of  them  escaped  the  general  wreck  that  followed 
the  war,  and  have  illustrated  by  their  energy  and  liberality  the  doc- 
trine of  the  survival  of  the  fittest — but  their  name  is  not  legion.  A 
new  and  hardier  stock  has  come  to  the  front — that  class  which  j^rior  to 
the  war  was  under  a  cloud,  and  are  now  seeing  their  better  days.  The 
pendulum  has  swung  to  the  other  side.  The  results  of  the  war  made 
an  opening  for  them  and  developed  their  energies.  With  no  high 
degree  of  culture,  they  have  nevertheless  pi'ovcd  equal  to  the  struggle 
up  the  rough  hill  of  life,  and  now  play  an  important  part  in  running 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE.  203: 

the  financial  machine.  Their  practical  energy  has  been  followed  hj 
thrift  and  a  general  recuperation  of  our  wasted  fields,  and  fenceless 
farms  and  decayed  houses.  They  have  proved  to  be  our  best  farmers 
and  most  prosperous  merchants  and  mechanics.  They  now  constitute 
the  solid  men  of  the  State,  and  have  contributed  largely  to  the  build- 
ing up  of  our  schools  and  churches,  our  factories  and  railroads,  and 
the  development  of  our  mineral  resources.  They  are  shrewd  and 
practical  and  not  afraid  of  work.  The  two  little  ragged  brothers  who 
sold  peanuts  in  Rome  in  18G0  are  now  her  leading  and  most  wealthy 
merchants.  Two  young  men  who  then  clerked  for  a  meagre  salary 
are  now  among  the  merchant  princes  of  Atlanta.  These  are  huijj 
types  of  the  modern  self-made  Southerner — a  class  who  form  the  most  ' 
striking  contrast  to  the  stately  dignity  and  aristocratic  repose  of  the 
grand  old  patriarchs  and  statesmen,  whose  beautiful  homes  and  long 
lines  of  negroe  houses  adorned  the  hills  and  groves  of  the  South  some 
thirty  years  ago.  ^ 

But  the  children  of  the  old  patricians  have  come  down  some  and 
the  children  of  the  common  people  have  come  up  some  and  they  have 
met  upon  a  common  plain  and  are  now  working  happily  together  both 
in  social  and  business  life.  Spirit  and  blood  have  united  with  energy 
and  muscle,  and  it  makes  a  splendid  team — the  best  all-round  team 
the  South  has  ever  had. 

But  there  is  one  feature  about  the  new  order  of  things  which  has 
surprised  and  bewildered  the  most  philosophical  minds,  and  that  is  the 
disposition  which  this  generation  has  to  educate  their  daughters.  In 
the  old  ante  bellum  times  the  sons  were  the  special  objects  of  the 
parents'  care.  They  gave  to  both  a  first-class  education  if  they  could, 
but  if  either  had  to  be  neglected  it  was  always  the  daughters.  The 
female  colleges  were  lew,  while  the  male  colleges  abounded  all  over  the 
land,  both  Xorth  and  South,  and  were  thronged  with  the  sons  of 
wealthy  and  aristocratic  Southerners.  But  now  the  rule  is  reversed, 
the  boys  are  sacrificed  and  the  girls  are  sent  to  college. 

This  is  all  very  well,  I  reckon,  and  if  it  is  not,  I  don't  see  how  we 
are  going  to  help  it.  The  trouble  is  to  find  out  who  these  college  girls 
are  going  to  marry.  I  don't  suppose  they  will  marry  anybody  until 
somebody  asks  them,  but  it's  natural  and  very  proper  for  man  and  wife 
to  be  pretty  much  alike,  mentally  and  socially.  They  should,  as  it- 
were,  class  together,  like  the  cotton  buyer  classes  his  cotton,  or  the 


204  The  Farm  akd  The  Fireside. 

merchant  his  sugar,  or  the  farmer  his  cattle,  or  the  geologist  his  strata 
of  rocks.  I  dou't  allude  to  property  at  all,  for  that  is  about  the  last 
consideration  that  secures  real  happiness  in  wedded  life,  though  I 
•wouldn't  advise  any  poor  man  to  marry  a  poor  girl  just  because  she  is 
poor,  and  I  hope  none  of  these  girls  will  ever  refuse  a  rich  man 
because  he  is  rich.  Money  is  a  right  good  thing  in  a  family,  and  no 
sensible  girl  will  turn  up  her  nose  at  it.  Money  is  a  social  apology 
for  lack  of  brains  or  education  or  graceful  manners,  but  it's  no  apol- 
ogy for  lack  of  honesty  or  good  principles.  Money  enables  a  man  to 
step  up  higher  in  the  social  circle  than  he  could  do  without  it.  Hence, 
we  see  a  rich  man  without  culture  ranks  pretty  well  with  a  poor  man 
with  culture.  Hence  it  is  that  lawyers  and  doctors  and  teachers  and 
preachers  and  editors,  however  poor,  move  in  the  same  strata  with 
bankers  and  merchants,  however  rich.  The  difference  is  that  money 
may  be  lost,  but  education  and  culture  cannot  be  ;  and  when  an  uned- 
ucated man  loses  his  money  he  loses  caste,  and  must  step  down  and  out. 
The  value  of  a .  man's  money  depends,  however,  upon  the  manner  in 
which  he  obtained  it.  Shoddy  fortunes  don't  amount  to  anything. 
They  may  shine  for  a  while  in  gilded  coaches  and  splendid  halls,  but 
they  will  not  last.  If  the  possessor  does  not  lose  it  his  children  will 
spend  it,  and  leave  the  world  as  poor  as  their  father  came  into  it.  A 
fortune  gained  in  a  year  rarely  sticks  to  anybody.  Five  years  is  not 
secure.  But  one  gained  by  the  pursuit  of  an  honorable  calling  for 
ten,  twenty  or  thirty  years  brings  with  it  that  high  social  position 
which  justly  entitles  a  man  to  be  called  one  of  the  aristocracy.  It  is 
a  great  mistake  for  anybody  to  desire  a  fortune  to  come  suddenly.  It 
would  embarrass  him.  A  big  pile  of  surplus  money  will  make  a  fool 
of  most  anybody  on  short  acquaintance.  It  takes  a  man  several  years 
to  learn  its  best  uses,  and  to  handle  it  with  becoming  dignity.  If  a 
man  never  rode  in  a  phseton  behind  a  spanking  team  it  takes  him  a 
good  while  to  get  used  to  that.  He  doesn't  know  exactly  what  to  do 
with  his  hands  or  his  feet,  whether  to  lean  complacently  back  or  cau- 
tiously forward.  If  the  vehicle  crosses  a  sudden  rise,  he  doesn't  rise 
with  it  in  graceful  undulations,  but  humps  himself  awkwardly  and 
imagines  that  everybody  is  observing  his  conscious  embarrassment. 
Money-making  sense  is  very  good  sense,  but  I  know  a  wealthy  young 
man  without  culture  who  was  made  to  believe  that  an  ostrich  egg  which 
he  saw  in  a  museum  was  laid  by  a  giraffe.     I  know  a  nabob  in  Atlanta 


The  Fami  and  The  Fireside,  205- 

who  subscribed  for  Appletou's  Cyclopedia,  and  when  they  came  said 
that  he  didn't  know  there  was  but  one  volume  and  refused  to  pay  for 
any  more.  And  there  is  another  one  there  whom  I  have  known  since 
his  boyhood  when  he  plowed  barefooted  in  a  rocky  field  over  treadsafts 
and  dewberry  vines  at  ten  dollars  a  month.  He  now  swims  in  shoddy 
luxury  and  lucky  wealth.  He  took  me  through  his  new  and  elegant 
mansion.  He  talked  gushingly  about  his  liberry  room.  He  showed 
me  a  beautiful  piece  of  furniture  in  the  dining  room  and  when  I  said 
it  was  unique  he  said  no  it  was  a  sideboard.  When  I  inquired  after 
the  health  of  his  wife  he  said  she  had  a  powerful  bad  pain  in  her  face 
and  the  doctor  said  it  was  newralogy  but  he  believed  she  had  an  ulster 
in  her  nose. 

But  what  troubles  me  is  that  these  girls  are  climbing  up  where  there 
are  no  boys, or  very  few  at  most.  Mental  culture  begets  mental  supe- 
riority, and  that  raises  one  socially  and  puts  him  or  her  in  a  higher 
strata.  There  are,  I  suppose,  not  less  than  ten  educated  girls  in  the 
South  to  every  educated  young  man ;  but  where  are  the  boys  ?  They 
are  in  the  stores  or  the  workshops  or  on  the  farms.  \^  It  did  not  use  to 
be  so,  but  the  bottom  rail  is  now  on  the  top]  I  don't  know  that  it  can 
be  helped,  for  the  war  left  our  people  so  poor  they  can't  send  all  their 
children  oflf  to  college,  and  so  they  send  the  girls  and  put  the  boys  to 
work  to  pay  for  it.  The  consequence  will  be  that  these  girls  when 
they  go  home  can't  find  anybody  good  enough  for  them.  A  nice, 
clever,  country  girl  graduated  last  year,  and  when  she  came  home  and 
asked  her  farmer  brother  to  name  his  fine  colt  Bucephalus,  after  Alex- 
ander's famous  horse,  he  said,  "Why,  I  didn't  know  that  Tom  Alexan- 
der had  any  horse." 

Well,  now,  you  see  a  college  girl  is  not  going  to  marry  a  man  like 
that — that  is,  not  right  away  quick,  on  the  first  asking.  She  will  wait 
a  year  or  so  at  least  for  some  chevalier  Bayard  or  some  first  honor 
man  to  come  along,  but  by  and  by  she  will  get  tired  waiting,  for  he 
won't  come,  and  then,  in  a  kind  of  desperation,  she  will  mate  with 
some  good,  honest,  hard-woi*king  youth,  and  educate  him  afterwards. 
Maybe  this  will  all  work  out  very  well  in  the  long  run;  for  it's  the 
mother  who  makes  the  man,  and  if  she  is  smart,  so  will  her  children 
be.  Of  course  it  will  delay  and  put  off"  these  early  marriages,  which 
our  wives  and  mothers  say  are  all  wrong.  I  have  been  very  intimate 
with  a  lady  for  thirty-five  years,  who  was  married  at  sweet  sixteen,  but 


!206  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

she  thinks  it  would  be  awful  for  her  daughters  to  do  likewise  unless 
the  offer  was  a  very  splendid  one  in  all  respects.  I  recon  that  was 
the  reason  why  she  went  off  so  soon. 

I  did  not  marry  my  first  love,  but  Mrs.  Arp  did — bless  her  heart — 
and  she  now  declares  I  took  advantage  of  her  innocent  youth  and 
gave  her  no  chance  to  make  a  choice  among  lovers.  That  is  so,  I 
reckon,  for  I  was  in  a  powerful  hurry  to  secure  the  prize  and  pi'essed 
my  suit  with  all  diligence  for  fear  of  accidents.  Once  before  I  had 
loved  and  lost,  and  I  thought  it  would  have  killed  me,  but  it  dident, 
for  I  never  sprung  from  the  suicide  stock.  I  had  loved  a  pretty  little 
school  girl  amazingly.  I  would  have  climbed  the  Chimborazo  moun- 
tains and  fought  a  tiger  for  her — a  small  tiger.  And  she  loved  me,  I 
know,  for  the  evening  before  she  left  for  her  distant  home  I  told  her 
of  my  love  and  my  devotion,  my  adoration  and  aspiration  and  admira- 
tion and  all  other  "ations,"  and  the  palpitating  lace  on  her  bosom  told 
me  how  fast  her  heart  was  beating,  and  I  gently  took  her  soft  hand  in 
mine  and  drew  her  head  uj^on  my  manly  shoulder  and  kissed  her. 
Delicious  feast — delightful  memory.  It  lasted  me  a  year,  I  know,  and 
has  not  entirely  faded  yet,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  tasted 
the  nectar  on  a  school  girl's  lips.  I  never  mention  it  at  home — no, 
never — but  I  think  of  it  sometimes  on  the  sly — yes,  on  the  sly.  I 
never  saw  her  any  more,  for  she  never  came  back.  In  a  year  or  so 
fihe  married  another  feller  and  was  happy,  and,  in  course  of  time  I 
married  Mrs.  Arp,  and  was  happy  too.  So  it  is  all  right  and  no  loss 
on  our  side. 

But  what  are  the  college  girls  going  to  do  when  they  graduate  and 
settle  down  in  the  old  homestead?  It  will  be  right  hard  to  descend 
from  the  beautiful  heights  of  astronomy,  the  enchanting  fields  of 
chemistry  and  botany,  the  entertaining  grottos  of  history  and  geology, 
and  the  charming  chambers  of  music  and  social  pleasures  down  to  the 
drudgery  of  washing  dishes,  scouring  brass  kettles,  making  little 
breeches,  and  doing  all  sorts  of  household  and  domestic  work.  It  will 
take  a  good  strong  resolution  and  common  sense  and  filial  respect  to  do 
it,  and  do  it  gracefully  and  cheerfully,  and  be  always  ready  to  bright- 
en up  the  family  hearth  with  her  educated  smile.  Such  girls  are  not 
only  happy  in  themselves,  but  they  make  others  happy,  and  that  is 
the  highest,  purest  and  noblest  of  all  ambitions. 

Be  content,  then,  with  your  lot,  young  ladies,  and  enjoy  what  you 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  207 

tave  got;  and  if  you  haven't  got  anything,  then  enjoy  what  you 
iaven't  got,  and  be  contented  still. 

I  know  every  true  man  wishes  from  his  heart  it  was  so  that  the 
dear  creatures  did  not  have  to  work,  only  when  they  felt  like  it.  I 
never  see  ladies  of  culture  and  refinement  doing  the  household  drudg- 
ery but  what  it  shocks  my  humanity,  and  I  feel  like  INIr.  Bergh 
ought  to  establish  a  society  for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  angels. 
The  burden  of  bearing  children  and  raising  them  is  trial  enough,  and 
involves  more  of  tte  wear  and  tear  of  the  sinews  of  life  than  all  the 
mien  have  to  endure.  Mothers  are  entitled  to  all  the  rest  and  indul- 
gence that  is  possible,  and  those  who  have  brought  up  eight  or  ten 
children  ought  to  be  retired  on  a  comfortable  pension  from  the  Gov- 
ernment. There  is  an  old  gander  at  my  house  who  for  four  weeks 
stood  guard  by  his  mate  as  she  set  on  her  nest.  She  plucked  the 
down  from  his  breast  and  covered  her  eggs,  and  when  she  left  them 
for  food  he  escorted  her  to  the  grass  and  escorted  her  back  with  a 
pride  and  a  devotion  that  was  impressive.  My  respect  for  geese  has 
heen  greatly  enlarged  since  I  made  their  more  intimate  acquaintance. 

But  after  all  there  need  be  no  serious  or  gloomy  apprehension  con- 
■cerning  the  future  of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  South,  If  the 
iDoys  cannot  go  to  college  they  will  gather  culture  by  absorption  and 
association,  and  acquire  property  by  diligence  and  industry.  Our 
young  men  have  learned  that  it  is  best  to  remain  in  the  land  of  their 
TsLrth,  and  few  emigrate  to  another  clime;  and  indeed  the  attachments 
of  the  Southern  people  to  their  neighbors  and  kindred  and  country 
are  stronger  than  those  of  our  Northern  brethren.  Our  society  is  not 
made  up  of  a  mixture  of  all  races.  We  have  a  common  ancestry, 
and  have  assimilated  in  thought  and  habits  and  customs  and  languages 
and  principles.  Added  to  this  we  have  the  influence  of  a  genial 
climate,  mild  winters,  fertility  of  soil,  lovely  sunsets,  variegated 
scenery,  with  fruits  aud  flowers  abounding  everywhere  to  sweeten  and 
make  glad  the  rosy  days  of  our  childhood.  We  have  more  latitude 
and  longitude.  Our  homes  are  more  spacious,  and  our  manhood  is 
comforted  with  the  memories  of  our  youth,  when  we  roamed  over 
the  fields  and  forest  and  hunted  the  deer  and  turkey  by  day  and  the 
coon  and  'possum  by  night.  It  is  a  hard  struggle  for  our  young  men 
to  emigrate  from  the  homes  of  their  childhood,  and  when  they  do,  a 


208  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

resolution  to  return  at  some  future  day  lingers  with  them  like  a  sweet 
perfume  and  comforts  them  on  their  weary  way. 

Not  so  with  the  sons  of  New  England,  or  the  remote,  inclement 
North.  Their  earliest  training  is  to  go — go  West — go  anywhere  for 
business.  They  snap  the  cord  that  binds  them  to  home  and  State  and 
kindred  as  they  would  snap  a  thread.  I  do  not  know  a  people  upon 
earth  who  have  less  emotional  love  or  veneration  for  home  and  the 
local  memories  of  childhood.  I  speak  respectfully  of  the  descendants 
of  the  Puritans.  I  speak  advisedly,  for  I  have  mingled  with  them- 
and  know  them,  and  have  many  dear  relatives  in  the  old  Bay  State. 
I  had  three  male  cousins  in  one  family,  and  they  were  off  almost  as 
soon  as  they  were  out  of  their  teens — one  to  Australia,  one  to  Cali- 
fornia, and  the  other  to  Nevada.  They  are  at  home  in  every  land- 
but  ours.  We  have  been  calling  them  kindly  ever  since  the  war.  We 
have  tendered  the  olive  branch,  and  gave  cordial  welcome  to  those 
who  did  venture  among  us.  We  have  sold  them  cotton,  and  sugar, 
and  rice,  and  tobacco,  and  bought  their  patent  medicines,  and  fly- 
traps, and  picture  papers,  and  Yankee  notions,  and  gimcracks,  and  go 
to  all  their  circuses  and  monkey  shows.  I  know  we  whipped  them 
pretty  bad  during  the  late  war — that  is,  at  first  and  all  along  the 
middle,  but  at  last  they  got  the  best  of  it,  and  it  looks  like  they  ought 
to  be  satisfied,  and  make  friends.  We  used  to  think  slavery  was  the 
cause  of  all  this  alienation,  but  slavery  has  been  abolished  28  years. 
Now,  the  Yankee  is  an  Anglo-Saxon,  and  has  many  admirable  traits 
of  character,  some  of  which  we  have  not,  but  need,  and  we  have  been 
living  in  the  hope  that  he  w^ould  come  down  and  live  with  us,  and 
teach  us  economy  and  contrivance,  and  mix  up  and  marry  with  us„ 
and  give  us  a  cross  that  would  harmonize  the  sections,  but  he  will  not. 
The  last  census  shows  that  there  are  180,000  more  females  than  males 
in  the  New  England  States.  Before  the  war  their  educated  young^ 
ladies  used  to  venture  South  and  teach  school,  and  our  young  men 
and  widowers  married  them,  and  they  made  good  wives  and  good 
mothers;  but  they  don't  come  now,  and  their  young  men  keep  going 
off,  and  the  poor  girls  up  there  are  in  a  bad  fix.  I  have  been  trying 
to  persuade  some  of  our  poor  and  proud  young  men  who  seem  so  hard 
to  please  at  home,  to  go  up  there  and  take  the  pick  of  the  lot,  and 
bring  them  down  here,  and  they  say  they  would  if  the  girls  wouid 
send  them  the  money  to  travel  on. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  209 

My  good  father  was  born  in  Massachusetts.  He  came  South  just 
seventy  years  ago,  with  a  cargo  of  brick,  and  never  returned.  Well, 
he  couldn't  return,  for  he  was  shipwrecked,  and  lost  his  cargo,  and 
had  nothing  to  return  on.  My  good  mother  was  born  in  Charleston, 
and  was  hurried  away  from  there  to  Savannah  during  the  yellow 
fever  panic  of  1814.  She  went  to  school  to  my  father,  and  he  married 
her.  AVhen  I  was  old  enough  to  understand  my  peculiar  lineage,  I 
wondered  that  I  could  get  along  with  myself  as  well  as  I  did.  When 
a  small  chap,  I  used  to  bite  myself  and  bump  my  head  against  the 
door;  but  my  good  mother  always  said  I  couldn't  help  it,  for  it  was 
South  Carolina  fighting  Massachusetts.  It  was  a  storm  that  lost  my 
father's  cargo,  and  caused  him  to  settle  down  in  Savannah.  It  was  a 
fearful  pestilence  that  hurried  my  mother  away  from  Charleston  when 
she  was  an  orphan  child.  So  I  was  the  child  of  storm  and  pestilence 
and  two  belligerent  States — how  could  I  behave.  But  for  these 
remarkable  combinations,  I  reckon  my  father  would  have  lived  aud 
died  in  the  old  Bay  State,  and  my  mother  in  Charleston;  but  what 
would  have  become  of  me  ?  But  fifty  years'  residence  made  my  father 
a  good  Southern  man,  and  the  Palmetto  Cross  made  me  a  high-strung 
rebel,  and  on  the  eve  of  secession,  I  loaded  my  pen  with  paper  bullets 
and  shot  them  right  and  left.  We  soon  found  out  it  would  take 
some  other  sort  to  whip  them  in  fight,  and  I  joined  the  army,  and 
succeeded  in  killing  about  as  many  of  them  as  they  of  me.  But  we 
have  all  made  friends  again  after  a  fashion,  and  now  love  one  another's 
money  with  a  devotion  that  is  unaffected  and  supreme. 

In  recurring  to  the  grand  old  days  that  are  past,  I  sometimes  feel 
sad  because  our  children  know  so  little  of  what  the  South  was  in  the 
good  times,  say  from  thirty  to  forty  years  ago — nothing  of  the  old 
patriarchal  system — nothing  of  slavery  as  it  was — nothing  of  those 
magnificent  leaders  and  exemplars  of  the  people,  such  as  Clay  and 
Calhoun  and  Berrien  and  Crawford  and  the  Lamars  and  Styles. 

They  and  their  illustrious  companions  moulded  manners  and  senti- 
ment and  chivalry  and  patriotism,  and  stood  up  above  the  masses  like 
the  higher  heads  overtop  the  rest  in  a  field  of  golden  grain.  But  the 
diffusion  of  knowledge  is  now  bringing  the  masses  up  to  the  standard 
of  education  which  these  noblemen  created.  The  field  of  grain  is 
coming  up  to  a  uniform  and  unbroken  level.  The  chances  of  men 
for  fortune  and  for  fame  are  more  generally  diffused  and  more  nearly 


210  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

'equal  than  they  have   ever  been,  aud   the  rise  of  a  man  from  the 
humblest  walks  of  life  is  no  longer  considered  a  miracle. 

The  pendulum  is  always  swinging.  Generations  play  at  see-saw — 
up  to-day  and  down  to-morrow — but  still  the  pivot  on  which  they  play 
as  rising  higher  and  higher  at  the  South.  Then  let  us  not  complain 
about  that  which  we  cannot  help,  for  whether  we  are  up  or  down  we 
have  a  goodly  heritage.  Let  us  all  stand  fast — stand  fast  by  our  land 
and  our  people  and  by  the  blessed  memories  of  the  past.  Let  patri- 
otism begin  at  home  by  the  fireside  and  then  stretch  its  wide  arms 
and  take  the  whole  nation  in  its  embrace. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  211 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


The   Old  School  Days. 

It  was  about  the  close  of  a  bright  and  happy  day.  We  were  all  sitting 
in  the  broad  piazza  and  Mrs.  Arp  had  laid  aside  her  spectacles  and 
was  talking  about  the  old  Hog  mountain  that  she  had  been  reading 
about  in  Joel  Harris's  pretty  story,  "At  Teague  Foteets."  "Why," 
said  she,  "that  Hog  mountain  is  in  old  Gwinnett,  away  up  north 
towards  Gainesville,  and  I  went  to  school  there  when  I  was  a  child. 
Old  Aunty  Bird  taught  us,  and  she  was  a  sweet  old  soul.  I  know  she 
is  in  heaven  if  anybody  is.  I  wonder  if  it  is  the  same  Hog  mountain 
— but  I  don't  remember  any  of  the  Foteets." 

Good,  honest,  clever  Tom  Gordon  who  lives  a  few  miles  above  us 
passed  along  as  we  were  talking,  and  Mrs.  Arp's  memories  took  a 
fresh  start  as  she  remarked:  "He  was  a  good  boy,  Tom  was.  I 
went  to  school  with  him  to  Mr.  Spencer,  and  I  know  his  speech  right 
now,"  and  she  rose  forward,  and  assuming  an  anxious,  excited  counte- 
nance, she  said  as  she  stretched  forth  her  hand,  "  Is  the  gentleman 
done?  Is  he  completely  done?"  Mrs.  Arp  is  mighty  good  on  a 
speech,  and  her  memory  is  wonderful,  and  so  to  toll  her  along  I  said, 
"and  Charley  Alden,  what  was  his  speech?"  and  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  took  a  new  position  and  made  one  of  those  short  neck 
bows  and  cleared  her  throat,  and  repeated  with  slow  and  solemn  voice, 

" '  On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser  rolling  rapidly.'  " 

Then  she  put  her  other  little  foot  forward,  and  brightened  up  as 
she  continued: 

"  '  But  Linden  saw  another  sight,'  " 

And  when  she  got  down  to  the  thick  of  the  fight  it  was  thrilling  to 
hear  her  and  to  see  her  heroic  attitude  as  she  screamed : 


212  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

"  '  Wave,  Munich — all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry.'  " 

And  she  waved  an  imaginary  flag  all  around  her  classic  head. 

"We  all  cheered  and  clapped  our  hands,  for  the  girls  had  never  seen 
their  mother  in  that  role  before. 

"And  poor  Thad  Lowe,"  said  I,  "what  was  his  speech  ?" 

"So  from  the  region  of  the  north,"  said  she. 

"And  Rennely  Butler,"  said  I. 

"At  midnight  in  his  guarded  tent,"  and  she  gave  us  a  whole  verse 
of  Marco  Bozzaris.  She  likes  that  and  we  begged  her  to  go  on,  and 
she  went  through  that  fighting  verse  where  the  Greeks  came  down 
like  an  avalanche,  and  her  martial  patriotism  was  all  aglow  as  she  said : 

"Strike  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 
Strike  for  your  alters  and  your  fires, 
God  and  your  native  land." 

Goodness  gracious,  what  a  soldier  she  would  have  made. 
It  was  my  turn  now,  and  so  I  put  in  on  Jim  Alexander's  speech  at 
my  school. 

"  Make  v/ay  for  liberty,  he  cried. 
Make  way  for  liberty  and  died." 

Jim  was  always  a  cruising  around  for  liberty,  and  the  speech  suited 
him  mighty  well.  But  Tom,  his  brother,  had  a  liking  for  the  law  and 
spoke  from  Daniel  Webster,  "Gentlemen,  this  is  a  most  extraordinary 
case."  And  there  was  Gib  Wright,  the  biggest  boy  in  school,  who  car- 
ried his  head  on  one  side  like  he  was  fixing  to  be  hung,  and  he  came 
out  on  the  floor  with  a  flourish  and  made  big  demonstrations,  fixing 
his  No.  13  feet,  and  you  would  have  thought  he  was  going  to  speak 
something  from  Demosthenes  or  Ajax  or  Hercules  or  the  rock  of  Gib- 
ralter,  when  suddenly  he  stretched  forth  his  big  long  arm  and  said : 

"  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee 
Improve  each  shining  hour." 

We  never  thought  he  would  get  to  be  a  big  lawyer  and  a  judge,  but 
he  did. 

And  General  Woffbrd  was  there  too,  and  his  speech  was  the  speech 
of  an  Indian  chief  to  the  pale  fiices,  and  most  every  sentence  began 
with  'brothers,"  and  he  whipped  a  big  sassy  Spaniard  by  the  name  of 
Del  Gardo  for  imposing  on  us  little  boys,  and  then  went  ofi  to  fight 


The  Farm  and  The'Fereside.  213 

the  Mexicans  for  imposing  on  Uncle  Sam,  and  ever  since  he  has  been 
fighting  somebody  or  imposing  on  somebody,  and  I  think  he  had  rather 
do  it  than  not. 

And  there  was  Jim  Dunlap  who  used  to  spread  himself  and  swell 
aa  he  recited  from  Patrick  Henry's  great  speech :  "They  tell  us,  sir, 
that  we  are  weak,  but  when  shall  we  be  stronger  ?  Will  it  be  the  next 
week  or  the  next  year  ? "  and  he  just  pawed  around  and  shook  the 
floor  as  he  exclaimed,  "Give  me  liberty,  or  give  me  death!"  Jim 
dident  carry  as  much  weight  before  him  as  he  carries  now,  but  he  was 
a  whale  and  had  a  voice  like  a  bass  drum  with  a  bull  frog  in  it.  Jim  was 
called  on  during  the  late  war  to  choose  betwixt  liberty  or  death,  and 
he  sorter  split  the  difference  and  took  neither,  but  he  pulled  through 
all  right. 

After  this  effort,  which  sorter  exhausted  me,  Mrs.  Arp  recalled 
Melville  Young's  speech  about  "King  Henry  of  Navarre,"  and  Char- 
ley Norton's  speech  to  the  eagle,  ' '  Great  bird  of  the  wilderness,  lonely 
and  proud,"  and  Charley  Rowland's  solemn  dirge  to  Sir  John  Moore, 
"Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note,"  and  then  I  was  called 
on  for  my  own  speech  and  I  had  to  stand  up  and  advance  forward  and 
make  a  bow  and  say :  "My  name  is  Norval— on  the  Grampian  hills 
my  father  fed  his  flocks." 

I  remember  it  took  my  teacher  two  weeks  to  keep  me  from  saying 
"my  name  is  Norval  on  the  Grampian  hills,"  and  he  asked  me  what 
was  my  name  off  the  Grampian  hills ;  and  finally  I  got  the  idea  that 
I  must  put  on  the  brakes  after  I  said  Norval  and  then  make  a  new 
start  for  the  hills. 

Mrs.  Arp  then  branched  off"  on  the  composition  and  recitations  of 
the  girls,  and  recited  sweet  little  Mary  Maltbie's  piece  on  the  maniac : 
"Stay  jailer,  stay  and  hear  my  woe,"  and  Sallie  Johnson's  composition 
on  "Hope." 

"Hope!  If  it  was  not  for  hope  man  would  die.  Hope  is  a  good 
invention.  If  it  was  not  for  hope,  woman  would  mighty  nigh  give 
up  a  ship." 

And  that  reminded  me  of  Mack  Montgomery's  prize  essay  on 
xQoney. 

' '  Money !  Money  is  a  good  invention.  The  world  couldn't  get  along 
much  without  money.  But  folks  oughtent  to  love  money  too  good.  They 
oughtent  to  hanker  after  other  folkses  money,  for  if  they  do  its  mighty 


214  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

apt  to  make  'em  steal  and  rob.  One  day  there  was  a  lonesome  trav- 
eler going  along  a  lonesome  road  in  the  woods  all  solitary  and  alone 
by  myself,  without  nobody  at  all  with  him,  when  suddenly  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eyeball  out  sprang  a  robber  and  shotten  him  down, 
and  it  was  all  for  money." 

Mrs.  Arp's  thoughts  seemed  away  off  somewhere  as  she  tenderly 
repeated : 

"When  I  am  dead  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier." 

"That  was  my  dear  brother's  speech,"  said  she  "and  it  all  came 
true.  He  was  killed  at  Chicamauga.  The  cruel  bullet  went  in  his 
brain  and  he  fell  with  his  face  to  the  foe  and  there  was  no  pagent 
train ;  no  kindred ;  no  sorrows  wasted ;  no  time  for  sorrow ;  no  loving 
hand;  no  burial  for  a  long  time.  Oh,  it  is  so  sad,  even  now,  to 
think  about  the  poor,  dear  boy.  He  was  so  good  to  us  and  we  loved 
him." 

Our  school-mates  are  few  and  far  between  now.  Death  has  carried 
most  of  them  away  and  those  who  are  left  are  widely  scattered.  How 
the  roads  of  life  do  fork — and  some  take  one  and  some  another.  We 
are  all  like  pickets  skirmishing  around,  and  one  by  one  get  picketed 
off  ourselves  by  the  common  foe.  I  had  liked  to  have  got  picked  off 
myself  a  day  or  two  ago.  The  wagon  had  come  from  town  with  a 
few  comforts  and  one  was  a  barrel  of  flour.  Mrs.  Arp  and  the  chil- 
dren always  come  to  the  south  porch  when  the  wagon  comes,  for  they 
want  to  see  it  unloaded  and  feel  good  for  a  little  while,  and  so  when 
the  hind  gate  was  taken  off  and  Mrs.  Arp  had  wondered  how  we 
would  get  out  the  flour,  I  thought  I  would  show  her  what  a  man 
could  do.  I  rolled  the  barrel  to  me  as  I  stood  on  the  ground  and 
gently  eased  it  down  on  my  manly  knees.  My  opinion  now  is  that 
there  is  a  keg  of  lead  in  that  barrel,  for  my  knees  gave  way  and  I 
was  falling  backwards,  and  to  keep  the  barrel  from  mashing  me  into  a 
pancake  or  something  else,  I  gave  it  a  heave  forward  and  let  her  go, 
and  it  gave  me  a  heave  backward  and  let  me  go,  and  I  fell  on  a  pile 
of  rocks  that  were  laid  around  a  cherry  tree,  and  they  were  rough 
and  ragged  and  sharp,  and  tore  my  left  arm  all  to  pieces  and  raked  it 
to  the  bone.  The  blood  streamed  through  my  shirt  sleeve  and  I  was 
about  to  faint,  for  blood  always  make  me  faint,  when  Mrs.  Arp 
Bcre'Bmed  for  camphor,  and  the  girls  run  for  it,  and  before  I  could 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  215 

stop  'em  they  had  campfire  and  turpentiue  fire  poured  all  over  my 
arm,  and  I  went  a  dancing  around  like  I  was  in  a  yaller  jacket's  nest. 
It  liked  to  have  killed  me,  shore  enuf,  but  after  while  I  rallied  and 
went  to  bed.  I  havent  used  that  arm  nor  a  finger  on  that  hand  till 
now,  and  go  about  sad  and  droopy.  But  I  have  had  a  power  of 
sympathy,  and  Mrs.  Arp  is  good — mighty  good.  Fm  most  willing  to 
tear  up  a  leg  or  two  by  and  by,  for  they  are  all  so  good.  And  now 
Fm  in  a  fix — for  I  can't  shave  but  one  side  of  my  face  and  company 
is  coming  tomorrow. 

Well,  I  used  to  could  let  down  a  barrel  of  flour — I  used  to  could — 
but  rolling  years  will  change  a  man — anno  domini  will  tell.  I  reckon 
by  the  time  I  get  my  neck  broke  I  will  begin  to  realize  that  Fm  not 
the  man  I  used  to  be,  but  as  Cobe  says,  "if  I  could  call  back  20 
years  I'd  show  'em."  The  next  time  a  barrel  of  flour  comes  to  my 
house  I  will  get  two  skids  twenty-five  feet  long  and  let  it  roll  out,  see 
if  I  don't.  But  it's  all  right,  and  I've  had  a  power  of  sympathy,  and 
sympathy  is  a  good  thing.  I  would  almost  die  for  sympathy.  I  shall 
get  well  slowly — very  slowly.  But  Mrs.  Arp  asked  me  this  morning 
if  I  couldn't  pick  the  raspberries  for  dinner  Avith  one  hand — said  she 
could  swing  a  little  basket  round  my  neck.  What  a  thoughtful, 
ingenious  woman. 


216  The  Faem  and  The  FiEEsroE. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 


Old  School  Days. 

The  older  we  grow  the  oftener  do  we  reverse  the  telescope  and  look 
back.  How  distant  seem  the  scenes  of  our  youth.  If  I  did  not 
know  better  I  would  say  it  has  been  a  hundred  years  since  I  Avas  a 
little  boy  trudging  along  to  the  first  school  I  ever  attended.  The  old 
school  days  are  a  notable  part  of  everyone's  life.  My  wife  and  I  fre- 
quently indulge  in  these  memories,  for  we  went  to  school  together, 
though  I  was  six  years  her  senior.  We  tell  over  to  the  children  all 
the  funny  things  that  happened,  and  discuss  the  frailties  and  the  vir- 
tues of  our  school  mates  and  magnify  the  teachers,  and  she  tells  them 
as  how  I  was  a  smart  boy  and  stood  head  in  the  spelling  class  for  a 
month  at  a  time,  and  she  remembers  the  speeches  I  spoke,  and  with  a 
pretended  regret  she  says:  "Children,  your  father  was  a  very  hand- 
some boy,  with  black,  glossy  hair,  and  he  had  plenty  of  it  then.  The 
girls  used  to  cast  sheep's  eyes  at  him  then,  but  I  didn't,  for  I  was  too 
young  to  be  a  sweetheart  then,  but  he  had  them.  Yes,  he  was  smart 
and  good-looking  too,  and  he  knew  it.  Yes,  he  knew  it.  He  had  a 
fight  once  at  school  about  his  sweetheart.  Her  name  was  Penelope 
McAlpin  and  another  boy  called  her  Penny-lope,  just  to  tease  your 
pa,  and  he  hit  him  right  straight  and  they  fought  like  wild  cats  for 
awhile.  When  he  was  a  young  man  and  I  was  in  my  teens,  he  was 
the  dressiest  youth  in  the  town  and  wore  the  tightest  boots.  Oh,  my ! 
I  had  no  idea  he  would  ever  notice  me,  and  I  don't  know  yet  what 
made  him  do  it." 

Well,  you  see,  the  like  of  that  called  for  a  response,  and  so  I  had 
to  put  in  and  tell  what  a  beautiful,  hazel-eyed  Creole  she  was — what 
long  raven  hair  that  fell  over  her  shoulders  in  waving  tresses,  and 
what  beautiful  hands  and  feet,  and  how  fawn-like  she  locomoted  about 
and  about,  and  how  shy  and  startled  she  was  when  I  began  to  address 
her,  and  what  juicy  lips  that  seemed  pouting  for  a  lover,  and  then 


The  Farm  and  Thk  Fireside.  217 

lier  teeth — her  pearly  teeth — that  were  almost  as  pretty  as  those  she 
has  now.  I  told  them  how  hard  it  was  to  win  her  until  she  found 
•out  I  Avas  in  earnest,  and  then  how  suddenly  she  surrendered  with 
tumultuous  affection,  and  I  recited  with  tender  pathos  those  beautiful 
lines  of  Coleridge: 

"She  wept  with  pity  and  delight,  • 

She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame, 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

She  half  enclosed  me  in  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace, 
And  bending  back  her  lioad  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Arp  stopped  sewing  and  gazed  at  me  sure  enough, 
as  she  said:  "Was  there  ever  such  a  story-teller?  Why,  you  know 
I  didn't  do  any  such  thing.     You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"I  was  just  telling  how  Genevive  did,"  said  I,  "and  how  Coleridge 
won  his  'bright  and  beauteous  bride.'     She  had  hazel  eyes,  too." 

Young  man,  you  had  better  not  try  to  flirt  with  a  pair  of  hazle 
-eyes.  It  is  a  waste  of  time  and  dangerous.  They  are  less  susceptible 
than  the  blue,  and  when  once  deceived  do  not  pine  away  in  grief,  but 
rally  for  revenge  and  take  it  out  in  scorn.  If  you  tackle  them  you 
had  better  go  in  to  win  or  leave  the  country.  And  while  I  think  of 
it,  I'll  make  another  remark:  .  When  you  woo  and  win  and  wed,  you 
had  better  keep  on  wooing  and  winning  afterwards  or  leave  the  coun- 
try.    It  takes  a  power  of  love  to  do  them. 

We  little  chaps  used  to  go  to  school  to  female  teachers — to  Yankee 
school  marms,  who  were  well  educated  and  smart.  But  they  never 
taught  school  very  long,  for  our  widowers  married  them  about  as  fast 
as  they  came.  You  see,  our  high-strung  blooded  girls  wouldn't  marry 
widowers,  for  they  could  always  get  young  men  to  their  liking,  but  a 
well-to-do  widower  had  a  fancy  for  a  settled  woman,  who  was  raised  to 
■economy,  and  would  be  so  grateful  for  having  bettered  her  condition 
in  life.  Of  course  they  did  not  all  marry  widowers,  but  they  married, 
and  they  made  good  wives  and  good  mothers,  and  their  descendants  are 
all  over  the  sunny  land,  and  have  proved  a  splendid  cross  from  South- 
ern blood  and  Northern  energy. 

The  first  teacher  I  ever  Avent  to  was  a  Yankee  woman,  and  she  had 


218  The  Farm  and  The  FiEEsroE, 

a  dunce  block  set  up  in  the  middle  of  the  room  for  the  lazy  scholars 
to  sit  on.  The  mischievous  ones  were  made  to  stand  on  the  table  or 
in  the  corner  with  face  to  the  wall.  She  never  whipped  us,  and  was 
a  kind  motherly  woman.  Jim  Wardlaw  "fit"  her  once  and  she  laid 
him  on  her  lap  and  tried  to  spank  him,  but  he  bit  her  on  the  knee 
and  she  screamed  "mercy"  and  let  him  go. 

The  other  day  I  chanced  to  be  one  of  a  party  of  assorted  gentle- 
men and  they  took  it  by  turns  telling  of  their  schoolboy  frolics  and 
adventures.  One  said,  "while  I  was  going  to  school  to  old  Greer  I 
picked  a  lot  of  wet  mud  off  my  shoe  heels  and  made  it  into  a  ball  and 
thought  I  would  just  toss  it  over  and  hit  Ed.  Omberg,  who  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  school  room.  Old  Greer  was  on  that  side,  too,  and 
right  between  me  and  Ed.,  but  I  thought  I  could  flip  it  over  his  head 
while  he  was  leaning  over  his  desk  setting  copies,  but  somehow  dident 
flip  it  hard  enough  and  it  came  down  on  old  Greer's  head  kerflop  and 
flattened  out  like  a  pancake.  I  never  saw  a  man  more  astonished  in 
my  life,  and  I  was  scared  mighty  nigh  to  death.  I  ducked  down  to 
my  book  and  dident  dare  to  look  up.  My  ducking  down  was  \\  hat 
caught  me,  for  the  other  boys  were  looking  up  in  wonder,  and  they 
would  look  at  old  Greer  and  then  look  at  me,  and  a  pointer  dog  couldn't 
have  spotted  a  bird  any  better.  'Come  here,' said  he.  'Come  here; 
come  here;  come  right  along  here;"  and  he  met  me  half  way  and 
gave  me  about  twenty-five  that  lasted  and  lingered  for  a  whole  week. 

"Jim  Jones  was  a  stuttering  boy,  and  chock  full  of  mischief.  Early 
one  morning  he  fastened  the  historic  pin  in  old  Greer's  split-bottom 
chair,  and  when  he  came  in  and  called  the  roll  and  then  took  a  seat  in 
his  accustomed  seat,  he  didn't  stay  there  long,  but  rose  up  with  great 
alacrity.  His  eyes  flashed  fire  as  he  gazed  around  the  room,  and  he 
caught  Jim  in  the  same  way  he  caught  me,  and  seizing  a  long,  keen,^ 
supple  hickory  said:  'Come  up  here,  sii',  you  villainous  scamp, 
I'll  show  you — come  along,  sir.'  Jim  approached  trembling  and  slow. 
'Come  along,  I  tell  you,  sir.'  Jim  stopped  and  stuttered  with  pitiful 
accents:  ' Ger-ger-ger-gwine  to  wh-wh-wh-whip  me?'  'Come  along,. 
I  tell  you,  or  I'll — '  'Ger-ger-ger-gwine  to  wh-wh-whip  me  hard.*^ 
Old  Greer  started  towards  him,  but  Jim  had  lost  confidence,  and 
wheeling  suddenly  made  tracks  for  the  door  with  old  Greer  after  him. 
Jim  bounced  over  two  benches  to  get  there  first,  but  Greer  had  t(> 
turn  a  corner  around  the  benches,  and  in  doing  so  tripped  and  fell 


TiiE  Farm  and  The  Fireside,  219' 

broadcast  and  rolled  over  besides,  and  we  boys  just  cackled.  He 
bounced  up  as  mad  as  Julius  Csesar,  and  said  in  a  towering  passion : 
'I'll  whip  every  boy  that  laughs.  Now  laugh  again,  if  you  dare.' 
And  we  dident  dare." 

Well,  it  is  curious  that  most  every  devilish  boy  in  every  school  is 
named  Jim.  The  very  name  seems  to  make  a  boy  devilish.  They 
generally  make  notable  men,  and  some  of  them  climb  very  high. 
There  is  James  Madison  and  James  Monroe  and  Polk  and  Buchanan 
and  Garfield,  And  Jimmy  Blaine  is  cavorting  around  and  thinks  he 
ought  to  be  president  just  because  his  name  is  Jim.  If  there  is  any 
other  good  reason  I  don't  know  it.  And  I  went  to  school  with  Jim 
Wilson  and  Jim  Alexander  and  Jim  Wardlaw  and  Jim  Linton  and 
Jim  Walker  and  they  were  a  sight.  There  is  another  thing  to  be 
noted  about  school  boys.  They  always  call  their  teachers  "old." 
They  called  Dr.  Patterson  "old  Pat,"  and  Professor  McCoy  "old 
Mack,"  and  Professor  Waddell  "old  Pewt,"  and  there  was  old  Nahum 
and  old  Beeman,  and  old  Fouch  and  old  Isham. 

We  were  talking  about  old  Isham,  and  one  of  our  party  said:  "I 
went  to  school  to  him,  and  sometimes  he  would  slip  up  on  a  boy  as 
slyly  as  a  cat  upon  a  rat,  and  catch  him  making  pictures  on  his  slate. 
He  would  hover  over  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  pounce  down  upon 
him  like  a  hawk  upon  a  chicken,  and  catch  him  by  the  ears  and  shove 
his  face  down  on  the  slate  and  wipe  out  the  pictures  with  his  nose. 
One  day  Jim  Harris  was  up  at  the  blackboard  blundering  along  and 
making  all  sorts  of  mistakes,  and  old  Isham  got  mad  and,  seizing  him 
under  the  arms,  lifted  him  up  bodily  and  mopped  the  blackboard  with 
him  and  rubbed  out  all  his  figures,  and  set  him  down  again  and  sent 
him  to  his  seat. 

I  went  to  school  to  old  George,  said  another,  and  there  was  a  fire- 
place at  one  end  of  the  long  room,  and  when  it  was  cold  weather  the 
small  fry  were  allowed  to  sit  up  near  the  fire  and  the  big  boys  had  to 
do  the  best  they  could  at  the  other  end.  Tom  Jackson  was  a  big, 
strapping,  freckle-faced  boy,  who  was  everlastingly  hungry.  One 
morning  he  brought  a  big,  long  sweet  potato  to  school  and  so  he  pre- 
tended to  be  very  cold  and  said  ' '  Mr.  George,  mayn't  I  go  up  to  the 
fire  to  warm?"  "Go  along,  sir,"  said  George.  Tom  took  the  shovel 
and  pretended  to  be  punching  the  fire,  but  he  was  slyly  opening  a 
hole  in  the  ashes  and  suddenly  dropped  the  potato  in  and  covered  it 


220  The  Farm  and  The  FreEsmE. 

up.  Some  of  the  little  boys  saw  him  and  whispered:  "Gimme  some, 
Tom;  when  its  done  gimme  some."  "Hush,"  said  Tom,  "and  I  will." 
In  about  half  an  hour  Tom  got  very  cold  again  and  asked  to  go  up 
and  warm.  "Go  along,  sir,"  said  George,  "you  must  be  very  cold 
this  morning."  Tom  warmed  awhile  and  took  the  shovel  and  pulled 
out  the  potato  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  "Gimme  some,  Tom ;  gimme 
some,"  was  whispered  all  around  as  he  marched  backed  to  his  seat. 
"Gimme  some  or  I'll  tell." 

The  little  boys  began  to  snicker  and  point  at  Tom  as  he  was  peeling 
and  blown'  his  "tater"  behind  his  desk.  "What  are  you  boys  making 
all  that  racket  about?"  said  old  George,  as  he  approached  them  with 
his  hickory.  ""NVe  was  laughing  at  Tom  Jackson  over  yonder  eatin'  his 
'tater.'  He  roasted  it  here  in  the  fire  and  promised  to  give  us  some 
if  we  wouldn't  tell,  but  he  didn't."  "Aha,"  said  old  George,  "come 
up  here,  Tom  Jackson,  you  sly,  deceitful  rascal.  That  is  what  you 
were  so  cold  about.  What  is  that  sticking  out  of  your  pocket?"  "A 
tater,  sir."  "Give  it  here,  sir.  I'll  have  you  to  know  this  school 
house  is  no  cook  kitchen.  You  are  so  cold  I  think  a  little  warming 
up  will  do  you  good,  sir."  And  he  gave  him  about  a  dozen  over  his 
shoulders  and  lower  down,  and  then  divided  the  tater  among  the  little 
boys. 

These  school  boy  tales  would  fill  a  book,  and  I  wish  that  "Philemon 
Perch"  would  write  another. 


Tile  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  221 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


Roasting  Ears  and  The  Midnight  Dance. 

I  once  heard  of  a  grumblin'  old  farmer  who  made  a  big  crop  of  very- 
fine  corn  and  on  being  congratulated  about  it,  said : 

"  Well,  yes;  my  corn  is  all  mighty  fine,  but  I  don't  know  how  I'll 
get  along  without  some  nubbins  to  feed  the  steers  on." 

It's  a  raining  now  every  day,  but  it  came  a  little  too  late,  and  we'll 
all  have  plenty  of  steer  food  this  year.  I  reckon  we  will  make  some 
tolerable  corn  on  the  bottoms,  and  the  late  planting  is  coming  out 
smartly.  If  misery  loves  company  we  can  take  comfort  like  the  dar- 
key did  that  Mr.  Stephens  told  about  in  his  speech,  for  poor  crops  are 
a  pretty  "general  thing"  in  this  naborhood. 

But  maybe  it's  all  right — for  we  did  make  an  abundance  of  wheat, 
and  it  aint  too  late  to  make  a  right  smart  cotton  and  git  15  cents  a 
pound  for  it.  A  man  ought  to  be  reconciled  to  what  he  cannot  help,  that 
is  unless  he  owes  a  little  passel  of  money  he  can't  pay  and  is  reminded  of 
it  once  a  month  on  a  postal  card.  That's  bad,  aint  it  ?  Or  unless  he 
has  got  a  lot  of  sickly  no  account  children.  I  tell  Mrs.  Arp  we  ought 
to  be  mighty  thankful  for  there's  nary  one  of  the  ten  that's  cross-eyed 
or  knock-need  or  pigeon-toed  or  box-ankled  or  sway-backed  or  hump- 
shouldered  or  lame  or  blind  or  idiotic  and  the  grandchildren  are  an 
improvement  upon  the  stock,  and  I  don't  believe  any  of  'em  will  ever 
git  to  the  poor-house  or  carry  a  pistol  or  go  to  the  legislature  and  have 
some  feller  offer  'em  a  hundred  dollars  for  his  vote.  ■ 

A  sound,  healthy  body  is  a  great  blessing,  and  a  fair  set-off  to  most 
every  kind  of  bad  luck  that  can  happen  to  a  man.  Mr.  Beecher  was 
right  when  he  said  the  first  rule  to  insure  good  health  was  to  select 
good,  healthy  parents  to  be  born  from.  My  ruminations  on  this  sub- 
ject have  been  quite  luminous  of  late,  for  I've  been  powerful  sick. 
The  fact  is,  I  like  to  have  died  the  other  night,  and  all  of  a  sudden. 
You  see  I  had  overworked  myself  a  fixing  up  a  turnip  patch,  and  got 
wet  besides,  and  didn't  stop  for  dinner,  and  was  sorter  hungry  and  bil- 


222  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE. 

ious  to  start  on  and  we  had  roasten  ears  for  supper  and  buttermilk  and 
honey,  and  takin'  it  all  together  I  took  the  green  corn  dance  about 
midnight  and  the  small  of  my  back  caved  in  and  from  then  until  day- 
break I  never  sot  up,  nor  lay  down,  nor  stood  still  a  minute.  Doubled 
up  and  twisted  and  jerked  around  with  excruciatin'  pains,  I  cavorted 
all  over  one  side  of  the  house,  for  we  had  some  Atlanta  company  on 
the  other,  and  my  groanings  were  worse  than  a  foundered  mule.  It 
was  just  awful  to  behold  and  awfuUer  to  experience.  Spirits  of  tur- 
pentine, camphire,  hot  water,  mustard  plaster,  mush  poultice,  pare- 
goric, Jamaica  ginger  were  all  used  externally  and  internally,  but  no 
relief.  I  trotted  around  and  paced  and  fox-trotted  and  hugged  the 
bed-post  and  laid  down  and  rolled  over  on  the  floor  like  a  hundred 
dollar  horse,  and  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  she  trotted  around  too,  and  dosed 
me  with  this  thing  and  that  thing  and  had  the  stove  fired  up  and  hol- 
lered for  hot  water  forty  times  before  she  got  it. 

"I  told  you  not  to  work  so  hard  in  the  hot  sun,"  said  she.  "Oh, 
Lordy,"  said  I. 

"I  asked  you  to  change  your  clothes  as  soon  as  you  came  to  the 
house  and  you  didn't  do  it."     "Oh,  my  country,"  said  I. 

"Don't  wake  up  the  company,"  she  continued.  "And  you  would 
eat  them  roasten  ears  for  supper — did  ever  anybody  hear  of  a  man 
eating  roasten  ears  for  supper  and  then  wash  'em  down  with  butter- 
milk and  honey."     "Oh,  my  poor  back,"  said  I, 

"Do  you  reckon  it's  your  back — aint  it  further  round  in  front?" 
^'Oh,  no,"  said  I,  "it's  everywhere,  it's  lumbago,  it's  siatiker,  it's 
Bright's  disease,  it's  Etna  and  Vesuvious  all  mixed  up.  Oh,  I'm  so 
sick — can't  nobody  do  nothin'." 

"Poor  fellow,  poor  William,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  but  you  will  wake 
up  the  company  if  you  don't  mind — I'm  doing  everything  I  can. 
You've  taken  enough  things  now  to  kill  you.  I  declare  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  next,  and  all  this  comes  from  moving  to  the  country  five 
miles  from  a  drug  store  or  a  doctor.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be — 
plumbags  and  skyatiker  and  a  bright  disease,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what,  and  I  would'nt  be  a  bit  surprised  if  you  had  the  yellow  fever 
to  boot — caught  it  a  trampin'  around  Memphis,  and  it's  just  broke  out 
on  you.  Poor  man,  if  he  does  die  what  will  become  of  us?  But  if 
he  gets  well  he'll  go  and  do  the  same  thing  over  again.  Don't  grunt 
so  loud.     I  declare  you  make  enough  noise  to  wake  up  a  grave-yard. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  223 

I  never  saw  such  a  man.  Here,  try  this  mush  poultice.  I  thought 
that  water  never  would  get  hot.     Does  it  burn  you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  it  burns,  but  fire  is  nothing  now,  let  it  burn.  Oh!  I'm 
BO  sick.  Bring  me  the  paregoric,  or  the  laudanum,  or  something,  I 
can't  stand  it  ten  minutes  longer,"  said  I. 

"There  aint  a  drop  left.  You've  taken  it  all.  There's  nothing  left 
but  chloroform,  and  I'm  so  afraid  of  that,  but  maybe  it  will  relieve 
you,  William.  My  poor  William,  how  I  do  hate  to  see  you  suffer  so, 
but  you  will  never  do  as  I  tell  you.  Do  please  don't  wake  up  the 
company !" 

Well,  I  took  the  chloroform  and  went  to  sleep — to  the  happy  land 
— all-blessed  relief,  and  when  I  waked  I  was  easier,  and  in  due  time 
was  restored  to  my  normal  condition.  In  my  gyrations  my  mind  was 
exceedingly  active.  I  ruminated  over  my  past  life,  and  could  find  a 
little  comfort  in  what  Lee  Hunt  wrote  about  some  Arab  who  was 
admitted  to  heaven  because  he  loved  his  fellow-men,  that  is,  except 
some.  Just  so  I  have  loved  mine,  that  is,  except  some.  I  thought 
about  money  in  comparison  with  health  and  freedom  from  pain,  and  I 
felt  such  an  utter  disgust  for  riches;  it  made  me  sick  at  the  stomach,  I 
would  have  given  a  house  full  of  gold  for  two  minutes'  cessation  of 
those  internal  hostilities. 

Well,  I  kept  this  numerous  and  interesting  family  in  a  very  lively 
state  for  a  few  long  hours,  and  it  taught  me  a  useful  lesson.  I'm 
going  to  take  care  of  myself;  I  am  going  to  do  eveiy thing  Mrs.  Arp 
tells  me,  for  she  has  got  sense — she  has.  She  takes  care  of  herself — 
not  a  gray  hair  in  her  head,  and  is  as  bright  as  the  full  moon ;  and 
when  she  gives  an  opinion  it  is  an  opinion.  From  that  horrible  night's 
experience  I  am  more  than  ever  satisfied  she  loves  me  as  well  as  ever, 
and  wouldn't  swap  me  off  for  nobody.  When  I  stand  up  before  her 
and  say  "juror  look  upon  the  prisoner — prisoner  look  upon  the 
juror,"  she  always  says  "content."  And  then  she  has  such  a  consider- 
ate regard  for  her  "company." 


224  The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


Open  House. 


In  the  good  old  patriarchal  times  most  every  family  of  wealth  kept 
"what  was  called  'open  house'  and  all  who  came  were  welcome.  There 
was  no  need  to  send  word  you  were  coming  for  food  and  shelter  were 
always  ready.  The  generous  host  met  his  guests  at  the  gate  and  called 
for  Dick  or  Jack  or  Caesar  to  come  and  take  the  horses  and  put  them 
up  and  feed  them.  There  is  plenty  of  corn  and  fodder  in  the  barn — 
plenty  of  big  fat  hams  and  leaf  lard  in  the  smoke  house — plenty  of 
chickens  and  ducks  and  turkeys  in  the  back  yard — plenty  of  preserves 
in  the  pantry — plenty  of  trained  servants  to  do  the  work  while  the 
lady  of  the  house  entertained  her  guests.  How  proud  were  these 
family  servants  to  show  off  before  their  visitors  and  make  display  of 
their  accomplishments  in  the  kitchen  and  the  dining  room  and  the 
chamber.  They  shared  the  family  standing  in  the  community  and 
had  but  little  sympathy  for  the  '  'poor  white  trash"  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

Some  of  us  try  to  keep  open  house  yet  but  one  can't  do  it  like  we 
used  to.  The  servants  are  not  trained  and  they  come  and  go  at  their 
pleasure.  Sometimes  the  larder  gets  very  low  and  the  purse  looks 
like  an  elephant  had  trod  on  it.  But  still  we  do  the  best  we  can. 
"We  "welcome  the  coming  and  we  speed  the  parting  guest." — 

During  the  last  summer  we  had  a  great  deal  of  company  at  our 
house  and  some  of  them  stayed  a  good  long  time,  for  most  of  them 
were  from  a  lower  latitude  and  imagined  that  the  yellow  fever  or  some 
dread  pestilence  was  about  to  invade  their  low  country  homes.  And 
so  they  were  easily  pursuaded  to  protract  their  visit.  When  they  had 
all  departed  I  was  glad,  for  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Arp  was  tired — very 
tired.  I  was  glad  too  because  the  supplies  were  well  nigh  exhausted 
and  the  cook  had  given  notice  of  a  change  of  base.  Our  recess  had 
just  begun  when  I  received  the  following  appalling  epistle: 


The  Farm  and  The  Fikeslde.  225 

Savannah,  Ga. 
My  Dear  Cousin  William : 

It  is  about  time  that  we  were  paying  you  that  loug-promised  visit. 
[The  way  he  came  to  be  our  cousin  was  his  step-father's  aunt  married 
my  wife's  great  uncle  about  40  years  ago.]  It  is  awful  hot  weather 
down  here.  The  thermometer  is  away  up  to  an  100.  It  makes  ua 
long  for  the  rest  and  shade  of  some  quiet,  cool  retreat  in  the  mountains 
of  North  Georgia,  where  we  can  get  on  the  broad  piazza  of  a  country 
home  and  enjoy  the  fresh  mountain  air  and  the  cool  spring  water. 
Our  children  are  all  at  home  now.  Our  eldest  son  has  just  returned 
from  college,  and  our  eldest  daughter  is  now  spending  her  vacation, 
and  they  need  a  good  frolic  in  the  country — and  there  are,  as  you 
know,  just  six  others  of  all  ages  and  sizes  and  they  continually  talk  of 
your  springs  and  your  branches  and  the  fish  pond  that  you  write  about 
.80  charmingly  in  your  Sunday  letters.  So  if  you  have  room  for  us 
we  will  all  be  up  in  a  few  days.  Our  second  boy  has  a  favorite  dog 
to  whom  he  is  much  attached.  If  you  have  no  objections  we  will 
bring  the  dog.  He  is  well  behaved  and  will  give  you  no  trouble. 
The  third  boy  has  a  pair  of  fancy  goats  that  are  trained  to  work  in 
harness,  and  I  know  your  children  will  like  to  frolic  with  them.  We 
will  bring  the  goats.  Our  nurse  will  come  with  us.  Now  don't  give 
yourselves  any  anxiety  on  our  account  for  we  are  just  coming  to  have 
a  free  and  easy  time  and  enjoy  the  air  and  the  water.  We  will  bring 
our  fishing  tackle  along.  Your  Loving  Cousin. 

It  was  with  great  hesitation  that  I  read  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Arp,  but 
she  was  equal  to  the  occasion,  for  her  hospitality  never  surrenders. 
"Well,  write  to  them  to  come  along,"  she  said  with  a  sigh.  "I expect 
their  children  are  tired  of  that  hot  city,  and  would  be  happy  to  get 
up  here  and  play  in  the  branch.  Their  poor  mother  has  had  a  time 
of  it  just  like  I  have — a  thousand  children  and  no  negroes.  Born 
rich  and  had  to  live  hard,  and  will  die  poor  I  reckon.  But  write  to 
them  to  come  along  and  enjoy  the  air  and  the  water,  for  there  is  not 
much  else  here  now." 

"But,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "there  isent  anything  else,  and  I  don't  see 
how  we  can  take  them.  The  truth  is  I  am  plum  out  of  money  and  I 
am  ashamed  to  go  to  town  and  ask  for  any  more  credit.  Two  months 
ago  when  our  company  began  to  come  we  had  3  or  4  hundred  chickens 
running  around  the  lot,  and  before  the  company  left  I  was  buying 


226  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

twenty  a  day.  It  is  just  awful,  and  we  can't  get  another  cook  any- 
where." 

"Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  she,  "we  can't  refuse  them — it  would 
he  bad  manners.  Write  to  them  to  come  along,  and  we  will  do  the 
best  we  can.  You  can  pick  up  something,  I  know ;  I  never  knew  you 
to  fail." 

So  under  conjugal  pressure  I  indited  the  following  reply : 

My  dear  Cousin:  Your  letter  delighted  us  beyond  expression. 
Our  end  of  the  line  is  all  fixed  up,  and  when  you  telegraph  us  that 
you  are  coming  we  will  meet  you  at  the  depot.  We  have  a  double 
buggy  and  a  farm  wagon,  and  if  they  will  not  hold  all  and  the  bag- 
gage and  livestock,  the  boys  and  the  dog  and  the  goats  can  walk  out 
and  peruse  the  country.  It  is  only  5  miles,  so  come  along  and  be 
happy  and  enjoy  the  air  and  the  water.  There  is  plenty  of  room  now, 
for  we  shipped  the  last  of  18  visitors  yesterday.  They  have  run  us 
down  to  air  and  water,  but  there  is  still  abundance  of  that  and  you 
are  welcome  to  it.  We  don't  care  anything  about  your  dog,  but  we 
have  one  here  that  I  am  afraid  will  eat  his  ears  off  in  two  minutes. 
Country  dogs  never  did  have  much  consideration  for  a  town  dog.  The 
only  trouble  is  about  feeding  your  dog  with  palatable  food,  for  we 
have  no  scraps  left  from  our  table  now,  and  our  dog  has  got  to  eating 
crawfish.     This  kind  of  food  makes  a  dog  hold  on  when  he  bites. 

I  think  you  had  better  bring  the  goats,  for  we  would  like  to  have  a 
barbacue  while  you  are  here,  and  we  are  just  out  of  goats.  You 
needent  bring  your  fishing  tackle  as  we  have  plenty,  but  fish  are 
awful  scarce  in  our  creek  since  the  mill  pond  was  drawn  off^.  Could- 
ent  you  bring  some  salt-water  fish  as  a  rarity  to  our  children.  Huckle- 
berries are  ripe  now  and  your  children  will  enjoy  picking  them. 
Ticks  and  red  bugs  are  ripe,  too,  and  your  children  will  enjoy  picking 
them  about  bed  time.  Scratching  is  a  healthy  business  in  the  country 
and  is  the  poor  man's  medicine.  Town  folks  can  take  Cuticura  and 
Sarsaparilla  and  S  S  S  and  B  B  B  but  a  poor  man  just  has  to  scratch 
— that's  all. 

I  wouldent  mention  it  to  my  wife,  but  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  as 
you  are  about  to  break  up  for  a  season  you  might  just  as  well  bi'ing 
your  cow  along,  for  ours  are  about  played  out.  It  Avould  do  your  cow 
good  to  eujoy  the  air  and  the  water.  And  this  reminds  me  that  my 
wife  scraped  the  bottom  of  the  sugar  barrel  yesterday.     It  does  take 


The  Farm  and  The  FiEEsroE.  227 

•&  power  of  sweetuiug  for  these  country  berries.  A  hundred  pounds 
or  so  from  your  store  wouldent  come  amiss.  I  suppose  your  nurse 
wouldent  mind  sleeping  in  the  potato  shed.  It  is  a  good  cool  place  to 
roost  at  night.  We  have  no  musketoes  but  snakes  are  alarmingly  fre- 
quent in  these  parts.  Carl  killed  a  rattle  snake  in  the  garden  yester- 
day but  he  had  only  Six  rattles  and  we  think  we  can  soon  train  your 
children  to  dodge  them.  So  come  along  and  enjoy  the  air  and  the 
water.  It  is  well  worth  a  visit  up  here  to  see  the  blue  mountains 
and  watch  the  young  cj^clones  meander  around.  A  cyclone  came  in 
sight  of  us  last  spring  and  unroofed  nabor  Munford's  house  and  killed 
seven  mules  and  three  negro  children  and  went  on.  It  is  a  grand  and 
inspiring  sight  to  see  a  cyclone  on  an  excursion.  Our  crab  apples  are 
ripe  now.  I  read  the  other  day  a  very  sad  account  about  three  chil- 
dren dying  of  crab  apple  colic  in  one  family.  Our  cook  has  given  us 
notice  that  she  will  leave  us  next  Sunday  and  my  wife  says  she  has 
tried  all  over  the  naborhood  to  secure  another  but  failed.  May  be 
you  had  better  bring  up  a  cook  with  you  but  if  you  cant  why  then  we 
will  all  try  and  get  along  on  the  air  and  the  water.  I  can  cook  pretty 
well  myself  on  an  emergency  but  don't  fancy  it  as  a  regular  job.  But 
the  greatest  trouble  now  is  that  we  have  nothing  to  cook.  But  come 
along  and  enjoy  the  air  and  the  water.  Your  cousin 

Wn^LIAM. 

Well  he  dident  come.     The  next  time  I  saw  him  he  said  he  was 
just  a  joking,  and  I  told  him  I  was  too. 


228  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


The  Old  Tavern. 

Some  time  ago  my  business  called  me  to  an  old  venerable  town  that 
is  still  a  score  of  miles  from  a  railroad,  and  consequently  has  not  made 
much  progress  in  its  business  or  its  architecture.  Forty  years  had 
passed  since  I  visited  the  place,  and  there  was  but  little  change.  The 
same  old  hotel  was  there,  one  of  those  big  old-fashioned  barns  that 
used  to  prevail  in  almost  every  town,  and  had  a  swinging  sign-board 
that  creaked  and  swayed  with  the  wind  and  said,  ''Entertainment  for 
Man  and  Beast."  They  used  to  have  a  plantation  bell  swung  up  on  a 
frame  close  by,  and  a  rope  attached  to  ring  the  guests  to  fried  chicken 
and  ham  and  eggs  and  beat  biscuit  and  bacon  and  greens  and  sausage 
and  lye  hominy  and  cracklin'  bread.  The  judge  and  the  bar  rode  the 
circuit  then — not  in  railroads  nor  one  at  a  time,  but  all  together  in 
buggies  and  gigs  and  sulkies.  It  was  quite  a  cavalcade,  and  attracted 
wonder  and  awe  and  attention  like  a  travelling  circus.  The  judge's 
room  was  always  the  biggest  and  best,  and  every  night  the  lawyers 
would  gather  there  and  talk  and  tell  anecdotes  and  exchange  their 
genial  wit  and  humor,  and  it  was  a  rare  treat  to  a  young  man  to  be 
admitted  to  a  corner  and  listen  to  them.  It  was  a  feast  to  me  I  know, 
and  I  still  treasure  the  memory  of  those  delightful  evenings  at  Gaines- 
ville and  Jefferson  and  Monroe  and  Watkinsville  and  Clarkesville, 
when  Howell  Cobb  and  Tom  Cobb  and  Hillyer  and  Dougherty  and 
Overby  and  Hutchins  and  Peeples  and  Jackson  and  Hull  and  Under- 
wood were  the  luminaries  of  the  western  circuit.  What  a  galaxy  was 
there — all  notable  men  in  their  day,  and  all  honorable.  There  was 
no  trickery  in  their  practice,  for  they  scorned  it,  and  they  loved  to 
meet  each  other  on  these  semi-annual  ridings,  and  each  one  was 
expected  so  come  laden  with  a  new  batch  of  anecdotes  wherewith  to 
cheer  the  night.  Book  agents  were  unknown ;  newspapers  were  neither 
numerous  nor  newsy,  and  hence  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  the  people 
to  catch  the  sparks  of  genius  as  they  scintilated  from  the  lawyers  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  229 

the  politicians  on  the  stump  and  in  the  forum.  Stump  politics  were 
a  big  thing  with  the  people.  The  two  great  parties  of  whigs  and 
democrats  were  pretty  equally  divided.  Sometimes  one  was  in  power 
and  sometimes  the  other,  and  the  contest  went  on  from  year  to  year 
and  never  ceased  to  create  excitement.  It  is  not  so  now  at  the  South, 
for  there  is  practically  but  one  party  and  it  takes  two  to  get  up  a  fight. 

But  this  venerable  town  had  memories  and  its  moss  covered  hotel 
with  its  steep  stairs  and  narrow  passages  carried  me  back  to  those 
good  old  primitive  times,  and  I  felt  like  painting  a  head  board  and 
nailing  it  up  somewhere  with  the  inscription  "Sacred  to  the  memory 
of" 

A  friend  said  that  it  was  a  pity  the  old  house  would  not  catch  fire 
and  burn  up.  But  no.  I  wouldent  have  it  so.  Let  it  stand  if  it 
will  stand.  It  will  never  rot  for  the  timbers  are  all  heart  and  hewed 
and  honest.     I  felt  like  taking  oflT  my  hat  to  it  and  saying 

Good  friend,  let's  spare  that  barn, 

Touch  not  its  mossy  roof — 
Its  walls  heard  many  a  yarn 

In  its  historic  youth. 

Under  the  weight  of  years 

Its  back  has  crooked  grown; 
Look  at  the  creaking  doors, 

See  how  the  stairs  are  worn. 

Oft  in  each  hall  and  room, 

Lye-soap  and  sand  were  thrown, 
And  many  a  home-made  broom 

And  many  a  shuck  have  gone. 

Full  many  a  chick  was  killed, 

And  died  without  a  tear, 
And  many  a  guest  was  filled 

"With  comfort  and  good  cheer. 

No,  no;  let's  keep  the  inn. 

Though  it  has  lost  the  sign — 
Keep  it  for  what  it's  been — 
it  for  auld  lang  syne. 


A  good  old  matron  is  keeping  it  now,  and  her  table  abounds  in 
generous  old-fashioned  fare. 

The  other  day  Judge  Milner  and  Col.  McCamy  and  I  were  lament- 
ing that  Judge  Underwood,  the  last  of  that  splendid  galaxy  of  lawyers 


230  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

tad  passed  over  tlie  river,  and  we  exchanged  many  delightful  recol- 
lections of  him,  for  he  was  a  genial  gentleman,  and  his  presence 
always  brought  sunshine.  He  was  a  notable  man — notable  as  a  judge, 
as  a  lawyer,  as  congressman,  and  as  a  wit.  We  recall  the  famous  Cal- 
houn convention,  when  Judge  Wright  and  General  Young  and 
General  Wofford  and  Lewis  Tumlin  and  some  others  were  candidates 
for  the  nomination  to  congress,  and  no  man  had  enough  votes  to  elect, 
and  all  were  stubborn,  and  the  balloting  went  on  all  day  and  part  of 
the  night,  and  the  delegates  were  getting  mad  and  furious  and  were 
about  to  break  up  in  a  row,  and  Judge  Underwood,  who  was  not  a 
candidate,  volunteered  to  make  a  conciliatory,  harmonizing  speech, 
and  he  did  it  in  such  a  delightful  affectionate  manner,  and  praised  up 
all  the  candidates  in  such  eloquent  tributes  that  when  he  closed  one 
man  got  up  and  waved  his  hat  and  moved  for  three  cheers  to  Judge 
Underwood,  and  they  were  given  with  wild  enthusiasm,  and  right  on 
top  of  it  another  delegate  moved  that  he  be  nominated  for  congress 
by  acclamation,  and  he  was.  Never  was  there  such  a  surprise  to 
everybody  except  to  the  judge,  though  he  always  denied  that  it  was 
a  preconcerted  scheme. 

"Oh,  rare  Judge  Underwood!  Colonel  McCamy  remarked  that  the 
judge  did  not  have  a  very  high  regard  for  that  picture  of  justice 
which  makes  her  blindfolded  and  holding  the  scales  equally  balanced 
in  her  hand.  So  far  as  crime  was  concerned  he  claimed  the  right  to 
see,  and  he  did  see  the  criminal  with  open,  unfriendly  eyes,  and  he 
sought  to  convict  him  and  gave  the  solicitor  general  so  much  aid  and 
co-operation  that  the  lawyers  used  to  say  the  judge  and  the  solicitor 
were  in  partnership.  His  charge  to  the  jury  in  a  criminal  case  was 
always  fair  and  strictly  legal,  for  he  was  a  great  lawyer ;  but  woe  be 
unto  the  lawyer  who  asked  for  more  than  he  was  entitled  to.  On  one 
occasion  a  big  rough,  malicious,  young  man  was  indicted  for  strik- 
ing a  smaller  youth  with  a  brickbat  and  inflicting  a  terrible  wound. 
The  small  boy  had  been  imposed  upon  by  him,  and  seizing  a  stick  he 
struck  him  and  ran.  Bill  Glenn  was  defending  the  young  man  who 
used  the  brick,  and  after  the  judge  had  given  a  very  fair  charge  to  the 
jury,  he  said :  "Now,  gentlemen,  if  I  have  omitted  anything  that  you 
think  should  be  given  in  the  charge,  I  will  be  glad  to  be  reminded  of 
it."  Bill  Glenn  rose  forward  and  said,  "I  believe  your  honor  omitted 
to  charge  the  jury  that  a  man  may  strike  another  in   self-defense." 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsmE.  231 

*'Yes,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  judge,  with  great  sarcasm, 
''Yes,  there  is  such  a  provision  in  the  law,  and  if  you  believe  from 
the  evidence  that  this  great  big,  double-jointed,  long-armed,  big-fisted 
young  gentleman  was  running  after  that  puny,  pale-faced  boy  with 
that  brickbat,  and  because  he  couldent  catch  him  threw  it  at  him  with 
all  his  force,  and  struck  him  on  the  back  of  the  head  and  knocked 
him  senseless,  and  that  he  did  all  this  in  self-defense,  then  you  can 
find  the  defendant  not  guilty.  Is  there  anything  else,  Brother 
Glenn?" 

"Xothing,  I  believe,  sir.  Your  honor  has  covered  the  ground,' 
said  Glenn,  biting  his  lips. 

"I  was  always  afraid,"  said  McCamy,  "to  ask  the  judge  to  charge 
anything  more  than  he  chose  to — especially  in  a  criminal  case." 


232  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


The  Old-Time  Darkeys. 

A  merchant  or  a  lawyer  or  any  outsider  who  never  farmed  any  has 
got  an  idea  that  farming  is  a  mighty  simple,  and  easy,  and  innocent 
sort  of  business.  They  think  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  plow  and  hoe 
and  gather  the  crop,  and  there  is  no  worry  or  complication  about  it, 
except  you  can't  get  a  rain  every  time  you  want  it,  and  the  crop  is 
short  in  consequence.  I  had  pretty  much  that  sort  of  a  notion  myself, 
but  I  know  better  now.  I've  been  farming  for  five  years,  and  I  like 
it  better  and  better;  I  like  the  freedom  of  it,  its  latitude  and  longi- 
tude and  its  variety;  but  there  is  a  power  of  little  Avorries,  and  not  a 
few  big  ones,  that  a  man  has  to  encounter  and  provide  for  that  these 
outsiders  never  dreamed  of.  When  a  man  is  running  hired  labor  it 
takes  about  half  his  time  to  watch  'em  and  keep  'em  from  wasting 
things,  and  losing  things,  and  doing  things  wrong.  I  went  down  in 
the  field  yesterday  and  stumbled  on  the  monkey-wrench  in  the  grass  by 
the  turn  row,  and  it  had  been  there  for  a  month,  and  I  had  hunted  for 
it  all  over  the  premises,  and  nobody  could  tell  anything  about  it;  but 
now  the  darkey  "members  takiu'  it  down  dar  to  screw  up  de  taps  on 
de  cultivator."  Not  long  ago  I  found  the  hatchet  in  the  edge  of  the 
bushes  where  one  of  the  boys  had  cut  poles  to  lay  ofi"  by.  I  can  pick 
up  scooters  and  dull  plows  all  about  the  farm,  in  the  corners  of  the 
panels  and  on  the  stumps  where  they  put  'em  when  they  changed  'em. 
My  log  chain  is  missing  now,  and  the  little  crow-bar  and  one  of  the 
hammers,  for  sometimes  I  have  to  leave  home  for  a  few  days,  and 
although  these  niggers  and  my  yearlin'  boys  do  their  level  best  to  sur- 
prise me  with  doin'  a  power  of  work  while  I  was  gone,  they  don't  notice 
little  things;  they  lose  at  the  bung-hole  while  stopping  up  the  spigot, 
or  vice  varcy,  as  the  saying  is.  They  bore  the  auger  bit  against  a  nail,, 
or  dull  the  saw  in  the  same  way,  and  let  the  old  cow  get  into  the  orchard, 
or  the  hogs  into  the  tater  patch.  I've  got  good  workin'  boys  and  right 
industrious  darkeys,  but  it  takes  a  man  with  a  head  on  and  his  eyes 


..fir"        ^'7v 


How  THE  Cyclone  Done  Him. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside,  233 

"well  open  to  keep  up  Avith  'em  and  watch  out  for  little  things — little 
damages  that  aggravate  a  man  and  keep  him  in  a  fret,  that  is  if  he 
is  but  human  and  can't  help  fretting  when  things  go  wrong.  A  nabor 
borrowed  my  brace  and  bit,  and  the  bit  came  back  with  one  corner  off; 
another  one  borrowed  my  cross-cut  saw,  and  it  came  back  awful  duU, 
and  will  cost  me  a  new  file.  They  don't  like  it  if  I  don't  lend  them 
my  mower  to  cut  their  clover,  though  they  never  have  cleaned  up  the 
rocks  in  their  field. 

(A  darkey  will  work  a  mule  sometimes  for  two  hours  with  the  hames 
out  of  the  collar  and  never  see  it,  and  he  thinks  it  mighty  hard  if  you 
won't  lend  him  a  mule  to  ride  to  meetin'  of  a  Sunday.  But  I  won't 
do  that.  They  beg  me  out  of  a  heap  of  things  but  they  shan't  ride 
my  stock  of  Sundays,  for  I  hate  to  do  it  myself,  and  when  a  darkey 
gets  on  a  mule  and  out  of  sight  he  is  like  a  beggar  on  horseback,  he'H 
ride  him  and  run  him  as  long  as  he  can  stand  up.  I  like  the  darkeys, 
I  do,  but  I  haven't  got  much  hope  of  'em  ever  being  anything  but 
the  same  old  careless,  contented,  thoughtless  creatures  they  ahvays 
were.  I've  got  one  who  took  a  notion  he  would  lay  up  half  of  his 
wages  in  spite  of  himself,  and  he  told  me  to  put  it  in  the  contract  that 
I  wasn't  to  pay  him  but  five  dollars  a  month  and  keep  the  other  half 
tiU  the  end  of  the  year.  And  now  he  tries  to  beg  me  out  of  the 
other  five  at  the  end  of  every  month,  but  I  won't  pay  it,  and  he  goes 
off  satisfied.  Nabor  Freeman  came  home  the  other  day  aud  found 
his  nigger  tenants  right  smart  behind  with  their  crops,  and  they  had 
all  been  off  to  a  three  days  meeting  and  an  excursion  besides,  and  so 
he  got  mad  and  hauled  up  Bob,  and  says  he:  "Bob,  what  in  the 
dickens  are  you  all  goin'  to  so  much  meetin'  for?  What  is  the  matter, 
is  the  devil  after  you  with  a  sharp  stick,  and  a  bug  on  the  end  of  it?'^ 

"Well  now.  Boss,"  says  Bob,  "I'll  tell  you  how  it  is.  We  niggers 
have  been  seein'  for  a  long  time  dat  you  white  folks  done  got  dis  world, 
and  BO  we  is  gwine  to  meetin'  and  fixin'  up  to  get  de  next  one  as  soon 
as  we  git  dar;  dat's  all;"  and  Bob  stretched  his  mouth  and  showed  his 
pearly  teeth,  and  laughed  loud  at  his  own  wit. 

I  love  to  hear  these  old  time  good  natured  darkeys  talk.  John 
Thomas  was  in  the  ragged  edge  of  a  cyclone  the  other  day,  and  said  I, 
"John  what  did  you  darkeys  do  when  the  cyclone  struck  you?"  "Good 
gracious,  boss,  I  tell  you — dem  niggers  just  frow  themselves  down 
on  de  groun',  sir,  and  holler  "Oh,  Lordy — good  Lord  hab  mercy  on  a 


■234  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

poor  nigger.  Nebber  be  a  bad  nigger  any  more,  oh  Lordy,  good 
Lordy" — and  de  old  slycoon  pay  no  tention  at  all,  but  jes'  lif  'em  up 
and  twis  'em  all  roun  and  roun  and  toss  'em  ober  de  fence  into  de  red 
mud  hole,  and  Gim,  my  soul  I  wish  you  could  hab  seen  Gim,  for  as 
he  was  gwine  ober  de  fence  he  struck  a  postis  that  was  stickin  up, 
and  he  gethered  it  wid  both  arms  and  held  on  and  hollerd  wus  than 
eber,  "Oh,  Lordy — oh  my  good  Lord.  Bless  de  Lord,  hab  mercy  on 
a  poor  nigger;"  and  about  that  time  the  old  slycoon  twis  he  tail  aroun 
and  lif  Gim's  feet  way  up  over  he's  head  and  his  holt  broke  and  he 
bounced  off  on  the  grouu  and  den  took  another  bounce  oS  on  the 
groun  and  den  took  anoder  bounce  into  the  mud  hold,  and  dar  de  con- 
sarn  lef  him. 

Atter  de  slycoon  gone  clean  away  I  run  up  to  Gim,  and  says  I, 
"Gim,  is  you  dead  or  no."  Gim  lyin  dar  in  de  mud  hole  wid  nuffin 
but  his  head  out.  Gim  neber  spoke  nary  word,  and  his  eyes  was 
swelled  like  a  dead  steer,  and  says  I  agin,  "I  say  Gim,  is  you  done 
gone  clean  dead,"  for  you  see  I  thought  if  Gim  dead  no  use  in  my 
wading  in  de  mud  after  him,  and  Gim  he  grunt  and  wall  one  eye  at  me 
and  whisper  "wha  is  he."  "Whar's  who,"  said  L  "De  debbil,"  said 
lie.  "Done  gone,"  said  I — "gon  clean  away."  "Git  up  from  dar — 
git  up,  I  say."  Gim  gib  a  groan  and  say,  "  I  can't,  I'm  done  dead." 
"Git  up  I  tell  you,"  said  I,  but  Gim  neber  move. 

Bymeby  I  frow  up  my  hands  and  look  down  de  big  road  and  say, 
*'my  good  Lord  Almighty,  ef  dat  old  slycoon  aint  a  comin  right  bach  here" 
ITeber  see  a  nigger  come  to  life  like  Gim.  He  bounced  outen  dat 
mud  hole  and  start  off  up  de  road  a  runnin'  and  hollerin'  for  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  White  folks  come  along  and  stop  him  and  look  all  ober 
Mm  and  nebber  find  a  scratch.  "When  he  got  back  we  was  all  cuttin' 
away  de  timbers  from  offen  de  mules,  and  it  was  a  half  an  hour  before 
we  could  git  Gim  to  strike  ary  lick.  Tell  you  what  boss,  we  was  all 
mighty  bad  skeered,  but  I  neber  see  a  nigger  as  onready  for  judgment 
as  dat  same  nigger,  Gim.  When  de  old  debil  do  git  him  he  raise  a 
rumpus  down  in  dem  settlements,  shore." 

"Dident  the  cyclone  take  of  the  roof  of  your  cabin,  John?" 

"Of  course  he  did,  boss.  He  take  de  roof  off  along  ebery where  he 
go.  Look  like  ebery  house  he  come  to  he  dip  down  and  say  take  your 
liat  off,  don't  you  see  me  comin',  and  aint  you  got  no  manners,  and 
aip  he  strike  'em  and  take  it  off  hisself.     He  take  de  roof  offen  de  col- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  235 

ored  school  and  offen  de  white  school  all  de  same.  He  no  respekter 
■of  pussons,  bless  God.  Tell  you,  boss,  what  I  tink  about  dis  old  sly- 
coon,  I  tink  he  nuffin  but  de  old  debil  on  a  scursion,  yah,  yah, 
yah,"  and  John  cackled  at  his  own  ideas. 

Bob  came  over  last  Sunday  to  see  us.  He  used  to  be  a  tenant  of 
mine,  and  we  liked  him  because  he  had  a  big  mouth  and  was  always 
happy.  He  was  a  good  worker  and  not  afraid  of  the  weather,  but  he 
was  careless  and  left  his  tools  most  anywhere  and  barked  my  young 
apple  trees  when  plowing  the  orchard.  I  loaned  him  a  new  shovel 
to  work  the  road  and  he  lost  it,  but  I  couldn't  stay  mad  with  Bob 
long  at  a  time.  We  never  supposed  that  he  could  get  mad  enough  to 
have  a  fight  with  anybody,  but  he  was  not  on  good  terms  with  a  neigh- 
boring darkey,  and  so  one  Saturday  when  they  both  came  from  town 
and  had  taken  a  drink  or  two  of  red  eye  they  undertook  to  settle  the 
old  feud  and  Bob  killed  him.  It  was  a  willing  fight  and  a  bad  case 
all  round  and  Bub  got  two  years  and  would  have  got  ten  but  for  his 
good  character,  all  his  previous  life.  He  has  served  out  his  term,  and 
honestly  feels  that  he  has  paid  the  debt,  if  he  ever  owed  it. 

"How  did  they  treat  you,  Bob  ?" 

"WeU,  sir,  dey  treat  me  purty  well,  purty  well;  I  can't  complain. 
^o,  sir,  I  can't  complain.  For  de  fust  six  mont  I  didn't  like  it  very 
well,  for,  you  see,  me  and  de  gyards  hadn't  got  'quainted.  Bimeby, 
•when  we  all  got  'quainted,  dey  took  a  liken  to  me  and  tell  de 
capen  to  take  off  my  shackles,  and  he  take  'em  off.  De  best  way 
is  to  make  friens  wid  de  gyard  fust,  jes  like  when  a  man  wants  to 
make  a  frien  of  another  man  he  muches  up  de  chillun  fust,  and  dat 
gits  de  old  man  and  de  old  'oman,  too.  Den  de  next  bes  way  is  ter 
pervide  by  de  laws  as  nigh  as  you  kin.  De  capen  tell  us  dat  de  fust 
day — sez  he,  boys,  you  must  pervide  by  de  laws.  Den  he  tell  us  de 
laws.  Dere  wasent  but  three  or  four  of  'em,  and  I  lissen  wid  both 
years  wide  open,  and  I  say  to  myself,  Bob  Smith,  you  mus  pervide  by 
de  laws,  and  shore  enuf  I  did,  and  atter  we  git  'quainted  like,  we  gits 
sorter  intimat  and  I  never  had  any  trouble.  Dey  like  me  so  well  dey 
shorten  my  term  three  months  and  three  days,  and  when  I  cum  away 
de  capen  say  '  Bob,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  go — can't  you  finish  out 
your  visit?'  And  I  say  'capen,  I  likes  you  mighty  well,  but  dis  is  de 
longest  visit  I  eber  made  anybody  in  my  life,  and  if  we  ever  meet 
again,  you  will  have  to  come  to  my  house.* 


236  The  Farm  axd  The  FiREsroE. 

"Did  they  work  you  very  hard,  Bob?" 

"No,  sir,  not  overly  hard — got  to  do  a  full  day's  work,  though,, 
and  dey  knows  prezactly  what  dat  is.  Can't  fool  'em,  and  can't 
play  sick  unless  you  is  sick,  and  hardly  den.  I  neber  lose  but  four 
days  in  all  my  time.  Heap  times  I  thought  I  was  sick,  and  if  I 
had  been  home  I  would  have  laid  up  shore,  but  dey  said  I  wasent, 
and  dey  looked  like  dey  knowed  and  I  didn't  know  and  so  I  went 
to  work,  and  shore  enuf  I  was  all  right  agin  by  dinner.  Colonel  Tow- 
ers he  come  along  every  week  or  so  and  look  roun,  and  he  ax  me  if  I 
had  any  complaint,  and  I  say  '  no,  sir,  sepen  I  would  like  some  poun 
cake,'  and  he  say  he  forgot  to  bring  it.  I  tell  you  what.  Boss,  de 
very  best  thing  for  a  man  to  do  when  he  gets  dar  is  not  to  go  dar 
— not  to  do  nuffin  to  go  dar  for,  and  den  when  he  gets  dar  de  nex 
bes  thing  is  to  pervide  by  de  laws.  Dere  is  some  folks  in  dar  jes  as 
mean  an  no  count  as  folks  outen  dar.  Dere  is  mean  niggers  and  mean 
white  folks  everywhere  you  go.  Some  folks  cum  in  de  worl  mean  and 
dey  stays  mean  all  de  time;  but  I  say  dis,  dat  if  a  man,  when  he 
goes  dar,  will  haive  hissef  and  pervide  by  de  laws  he  kin  git  along 
and  hav  a  tolable  easy  time. 

"De  last  six  mont  I  stay  dar  I  dident  have  to  work  any.  Dey 
made  me  a  trusty  and  I  have  charge  of  de  dogs — de  track  dogs — 
and  when  de  niggers  get  away  de  boss  he  holler  for  Bob  mighty  quick. 
We  had  two  track  dogs;  one  of  'em  was  a  big,  long-eared  houn  dog — 
could  track  mighty  fast — de  oder  was  a  small  dog,  sorter  like  a  fice, 
but  he  mighty  shore  on  de  scent  of  a  run-away.  One  mornin'  about 
daybreak  de  boss  holler,  '  Git  up,  Bob,  git  up  quick,  bring  de  dogs, 
two  niggers  got  away.'  So  I  brings  de  dogs  and  we  put  'em  on  de 
track,  and  away  dey  went  cross  an  old  field  and  into  de  woods  and 
was  barkin'  every  step.  I  throws  de  saddles  on  de  mules  in  a  hurry, 
and  I  got  on  one  and  de  boss  on  toder  and  away  we  went  after  de 
dogs.  De  run-aways  dident  have  more'n  half  an  hour  start  and  de 
track  was  powerful  warm.  And  so  de  dogs  run  and  de  niggers  run 
and  we  run,  and  bimeby  after  we  gone  about  four  miles  we  hear  de 
old  houn  change  his  tune  like  he  treed  sumfin,  and  de  boss  say,  'Bob, 
old  Sheriff  have  got  'em.'  And  shore  enuf  when  we  got  dar  de  run- 
aways was  up  in  a  white  oak  tree  a  settin  on  a  limb,  and  de  old  houn 
dog  was  a  settin  on  de  groun  wid  his  head  up  a  lookin'  at  'em  and  a 
barkin',  and  every  time  he  ojjen  his  mouf  he  say,  '  Too-ooo  of  'em. 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE.  237 

too-ooo  of  'em,  too-ooo  of  'em.'  Aud  de  little  dog  was  a  settin'  back 
on  his  tail  and  he  say,  *dats  a  fak,  dats  a  fak,  dats  a  fak.'  Yah,  yah, 
yah.  Boss  make  dem  niggers  come  down  from  dar  quick  and  march 
'em  back  to  de  stockade  and  give  'em  forty  lashes  apiece,  cos  you  see 
dey  dident  pervide  by  de  laws." 

Bob  asked  me  one  day  if  a  man's  soul  could  be  split  in  two.  "What 
do  you  mean,"  said  I,  "What  kind  of  a  fool  question  is  that?"  Bob 
spread  his  big  mouth  and  said:  "My  boss  was  tryin'  to  devil  me  one 
day  'bout  gwine  to  meetin'  so  much  and  he  say :  '  Bob,  don't  you 
know  dat  a  nigger  ain't  got  no  soul  ? '  And  den  I  ax  him  if  a  white 
man  got  a  soul,  and  he  say,  'of  corse  he  had.'  And  den  I  say, 
*'Sposin'  a  colored  man  is  a  mellater  and  is  jes  half  and  half,  how's 
dat?"  He  study  awhile  and  say  he 'low  a  mellater  have  jes  half  a 
soul.  And  den  I  say.  'Look  a  here.  Boss,  what  kind  of  a  thing  is 
dat,  dat  half  of  a  soul  ?  Can  you  split  a  soul  in  two  ?'  He  turn  oflf 
and  laugh  and  say,  'Damfino,' and  I  tell  him  I's  gwine  to  ax  you 
about  it."  And  Bob  showed  his  pearly  teeth  and  laughed  tumultu- 
ously. 

When  the  prohibition  election  came  off  in  our  county  the  negroes 
were  generally  on  the  side  of  whiskey,  more  whiskey  and  better 
whiskey,  but  Bob  came  up  as  a  temperance  darkey  and  made  a  speech 
to  the  darkeys  of  his  church.  A  whiskey  man  in  the  crowd  inter- 
rupted him  and  said,  "Sho  as  you  are  bornd.  Bob  Smith,  effen  you 
vote  whiskey  outen  Cartersville  de  grass  will  grow  waist  high  in  dem 
streets."  "'Sposin  it  do?"  said  Bob,  "'Sposin'  it  do?  Den  we'll 
raise  more  hay  and  less  hell,  and  dats  what's  de  matter  wid  Hannah. 
Yah!  Yah!" 


238  The  Farm  and  The  Fireshde. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 


Owls,  Snakes  and  Whang-Doodles. 

Most  every  night  about  half-past  eight, 

A  screech  owl  mourneth  at  the  outside  gate. 

The  sweet  little  katydids  sing  all  the  day  long.  Earlier  in  the  sea- 
son they  were  happy  only  at  night,  but  now  the  woods  are  full  of  their 
music  by  day.  It  is  not  a  song  from  the  mouth,  but  they  rub  the  bars 
of  their  wings  together  and  puff  out  their  bodies  for  sounding  boards, 
and  if  a  man  could  sing  as  loud  in  proportion  to  size,  I  suppose  he 
could  be  heard  across  the  Atlantic  ocean,  and  his  voice  would  make 
an  earthquake  and  shake  down  the  stars,  and  so  that  wouldn't  do  at 
all,  and  he  wasn't  made  that  way.  But  these  little  screech  owls  are  a 
nuisance,  and  are  enough  to  make  a  nervous  woman  have  fits  or  hys- 
terics or  something.  I  shot  one  on  the  gate  post  one  night  while  he 
was  complaining  about  something  we  had  done  to  him,  but  another 
one  came  back  and  set  up  his  mournful  wails.  I  wonder  what  makes 
'em  stay  away  off  in  the  woods  all  day  and  come  screeching  around 
the  house  at  night  like  they  wanted  to  haunt  us.  There  is  some  excuse 
for  superstition  about  owls,  for  they  love  darkness  rather  than  light, 
and  the  ancient  philosophers  said  they  were  the  sentinels  and  forerun- 
ners of  evU.  spirits,  and  the  scriptures  classed  'em  with  demons  and  all 
sorts  of  trouble  and  misery.  The  Prophet  Isaiah  cursed  Babylon  and 
said  the  owl  should  dwell  there,  and  satyrs  should  dance  there.  And 
then  they  look  so  wise  out  of  their  big  eyes  and  twist  their  heads 
'round  and  'round  watching  you,  and  you  can't  scare  'em  nor  tame  'em. 
Well,  they  were  made  for  something;  but  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  and 
I  have  frequently  thought  that  when  the  flood  covered  the  earth 
it  was  a  mighty  good  time  for  Father  Noah  to  have  left  out  of  the  ark 
all  such  disagreeable  varmints  as  owls,  and  snakes,  and  whang-doodles 
that  mourn  for  their  first  born. 

Gen.  Black  told  me  that  if  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  screech  owls  to 
put  the  shovel  in  the  fire  when  one  of  'em  was  a  screechin'  and  he 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  239 

wo  uld  leave  forthwith.  The  general  said  the  fire  contracted  with  the 
oxide  in  the  iron  and  deluminated  an  odoriferous  that  was  disagree- 
ahle  to  the  delicate  oil  factories  of  the  bird.  Jesso !  "Well,  I  tried  it, 
and  he  dident  leave  worth  a  cent. 

That  screech  owl  is  sitting  on  the  gate-post  singing  a  funeral  dirge. 
It's  a  bird  of  bad  omen,  and  I  would  shoot  him,  but  my  wife  says  an 
old  African  witch  told  her  grandmother  there  would  be  a  death  in  the 
family  if  you  killed  one  of  'em,  shore.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that 
in  the  fitness  of  things  they  belonged  to  a  graveyard  or  a  haunted 
house  or  a  dismal  swamp  or  a  country  meetin'  house  that  the  hogs 
slept  under  and  nobody  preached  in.  I  don't  like  'em,  especially  at 
this  juncture  of  home  concerns,  for  my  wife  saw  the  last  new  moon 
through  a  bushy  tree-top  right  over  her  left  shoulder,  which  she  dident 
mean  to  do  by  no  means.  Things  don't  move  on  serenely,  and  the 
old  horse-shoe  over  the  kitchen  door  has  lost  its  influence.  I  havent 
seen  a  pin  on  the  floor  that  dident  pint  away  from  me,  and  the  other 
day  a  rabbit  run  across  the  road  right  before  me,  and  soon  after  I 
come  to  a  snake  track,  which  they  say  is  mighty  bad  if  you  don't  rub 
it  out  with  your  face  towards  the  snake,  but  I  couldn't  tell  whether 
the  snake  that  made  the  track  was  going  north  or  coming  back,  and 
so  had  to  rub  out  by  guess,  and  now  while  I'm  a-writin'  Mrs.  Arp  has 
got  a  hummin'  in  her  right  ear,  and  she  says  it  sounds  like  an  Eolean 
harp,  or  a  musketer  away  off,  and  that's  another  funeral  sign — and 
last  night  a  black  pet  chicken  came  in  the  fa,m[\y  room  while  we 
was  at  supper,  and  went  to  roost  on  top  of  a  picture  that  hung  over 
the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  nobody  knowd  it  until  we  had  put 
the  light  out  and  went  to  bed,  when  it  chuckled  a  little  and  Mrs.  Arp 
chuckled  a  good  deal  until  I  struck  a  light,  and  now  she  says  Mr.  Poe 
had  a  raven  that  done  the  same  thing  and  he  died  soon  after. 

The  weather  is  sad.  It  mists  and  weeps  and  stays  cloudy  all  the 
time,  and  that  makes  everybody  gloomy.  There  hasent  been  a  dry 
day  in  three  weeks  that  we  can  plow.  The  grass  grows  as  fast  as  the 
cotton  and  the  seed  will  scatter  all  over  the  open  bolls  and  the  cotton- 
buyers  will  dock  us  a  cent  for  trash.  Things  are  not  working  right 
for  us  farmers,  but  we  can't  help  it.  The  flies  take  shelter  in  the 
house  and  so  do  the  bugs  and  the  grand-daddies  and  the  bats. 

Here,  William,  quick,  I  say — here's  a  grand-daddy  on   me;  don't 


240  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

you  see;  why  don't  you  take  him  off.     Lord  a  mercy,  did  I  ever  Bee 
a  man  as  slow  as  your  are.     Do  please  take  the  thing  off." 

"Well,  you  see  it  takes  a  long  time  to  find  the  thing,  and  when  you 
do  he's  a  crawlin'  on  the  floor  a  gettin  away  as  fast  as  he  can,  and  she 
declares  that's  another  one  and  I  have  to  hunt  all  over  her  for  five 
minutes. 

"There's  one  of  those  contemptible  hats  in  here  again.  Get  the 
broom,  William,  I  wouldn't  have  it  to  get  on  me  for  a  thousand  dol- 
lars. Mercy  on  me !  I  do  believe  the  house  will  be  run  over  with 
vermin.  Don't  break  the  bureau  glass.  Why  don't  you  stand  on  the 
table?  Why,  you  don't  come  in  a  yard  of  him!  It  does  seem  to  me 
if  I  was  a  man  I  could  knock  a  bat  down." 

"He  has  gone  out,"  said  I,  meekly. 

"How  do  you  know — did  you  see  him?  Bet  anything  its  on  my 
bed  somewhere.  Move  the  pillows  and  bolster.  I'll  dream  about  the 
thing  all  night." 

It  looks  like  I'll  perish  to  death  for  want  of  some  good  warm  vittels. 
I'm  juicin'  away.  You  see  when  Mrs.  Arp  was  a  cookin'  the  other  day 
in  the  basement  an  innocent  chicken-snake  crawled  out  from  behind 
the  meal-chest.  Such  a  scream  was  never  heard  since  the  Injuns 
scalped  my  great  uncle.  I  run  for  my  life  and  was  pickin'  her  up  in 
my  arms  when  she  rallied  and  said,  "kill  the  snake  first;"  and  I  killed 
it.  He  was  a  lovely  snake — all  speckled  with  dark  green  and  white 
and  had  just  swallowed  a  mouse.  But,  alas!  the  kitchen  is  purty 
much  deserted  and  all  regular  cooking  abandoned.  When  they  cook 
now  I  have  to  take  a  gun  and  stand  guard.  I  march  forrerds  and 
backwards  like  a  sentinel.  I've  had  to  move  the  meal  tub  and  the 
stove  wood,  and  everything  else  fourteen  times,  for  she  declares  its  got 
a  mate,  and  the  mate  is  there  somewhere.  "Maybe  its  a  bachelor 
snake,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  don't  believe  there's  another  snake  in  the  wide 
^vorld — and  I've  found  out  you  killed  one  last  week  under  the  hearth 
and  you  told  the  children  not  to  let  me  know  anything  about  it;  didn't 
you?" 

"It  was  a  very  little  one,"  said  I,  "and  I  dident  want  you  troubled 
about  it." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  a  little  one,  but  snakes  are  snakes,  and  where 
there's  little  ones  there's  big  ones.     I  do  believe  the  whole  plantation 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  241 

is  haimted  with  'em,  and  everywhere  else,  for  I  can't  take  up  a  news" 
paper  -without  seeing  where  somebody  was  bitten." 

"Men  and  boys,"  says  I;  "I  havent  seen  any  mention  of  a  woman 
"being  bitten  nowhere — fiict  is,  I  don't  believe  they  bite  females.  You 
inow  that  old  mother  Eve  was  mighty  friendly  with  'em." 

"Yes,  that's  always  the  way — you  turn  everything  into  ridicule. 
Well,  you  may  hire  a  cook;  I'm  not  going  to  risk  my  life  nor  the 
children's  in  this  old  haunted  kitchen." 

But  I  think  she  is  getting  over  it,  and  with  a  little  encouragement 
things  will  resume  their  natural  condition  in  a  few  days.  The  greatest 
trouble  I  have  in  this  connection  is  Freeman — my  nabor  Freeman. 
I  reckon  he  don't  mean  any  harm  by  it;  but  just  as  soon  as  my  wife, 
Mrs.  Arp,  told  him  about  the  snake,  he  up  and  told  her  about  killia 
one  over  in  his  field  as  long  as  a  fence  rail,  and  how  it  had  its  den  in 
a  rock  pile,  and  would  run  out  after  him  and  the  niggers,  and  then 
retreat;  and  they  were  all  fightin'  and  runnin'  and  runnin'  and  fightin 
for  two  hours,  until  they  wore  him  out;  and  he  brung  down  the 
rattles  of  a  rattlesnake  and  rattled  'em  around,  and  told  about  finding 
a  spring  lizzard  in  the  water  pail,  and  had  like  to  have  swallered  him 
alive  in  the  gourd.  And  now  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  won't  drink  out  of 
anything  but  a  glass  goblet;  and  when  she  walks  out  \n  the  front 
yard  she  has  one  eye  for  flowers  and  the  other  for  snakes  and  lizzards, 
and  shakes  her  clothes  tremendious  when  she  comes  back.  I  wish 
that  one  would  bite  Freeman. 


242  The  Fapjsi  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 


The  Autumn  Leaves. 

The  earliest  fires  of  the  fall 

Have  brightened  up  the  room, 
The  cat  and  dog  and  children  all 

Have  bid  old  winter  come. 

The  wind  is  running  at  the  nose, 

The  clouds  are  in  a  shiver; 
By  day  we  want  more  warmer  clothes, 

At  night  we  want  more  kiver. 

When  a  farmer  has  laid  by  his  crop  and  the  seasons  have  been 
kind  and  the  corn  and  cotton  are  maturing,  and  the  sweet  potato 
vines  have  covered  the  ground,  what  an  innocent  luxury  it  is  to  set  in 
the  piazza  in  the  shade  of  evening  with  one's  feet  on  the  banisters,  and 
contemplate  the  beauty  and  bounty  of  nature  and  the  hopeful  pros- 
pect of  another  year's  support.  It  looks  like  that  even  an  Ishmaelite 
might  then  feel  calm  and  serene,  and  if  he  is  still  ungrateful  for  his 
abundant  blessings  he  is  worse  than  a  heathen,  and  ought  to  be  run 
out  of  a  Christian's  country.  Every  year  brings  toil  and  trouble  and 
apprehension,  but  there  always  comes  along  rest  and  peace  and  the 
ripe  fruits  of  one's  labors. 

Persimmons  and  'possums  are  getting  ripe.  The  May-pops  have 
dropped  from  the  vines.  Chestnuts  and  chinkapins  are  opening,  and 
walnuts  are  covering  the  ground.  Crawfish  and  frogs  have  gone  into 
winter  quarters — snakes  and  lizzards  have  bid  us  adieu.  All  nature 
is  preparing  for  a  winter's  sleep — sleep  for  the  trees,  and  grass  and 
flowers.  I  like  winter;  not  six  long  months  of  snow  and  ice  and 
howling  winds,  but  three  months  interspersed  with  sunny  days  and 
Indian  summers.  The  Sunny  South  is  the  place  for  me,  the  region  of 
mild  and  temperate  climate,  of  lofty  mountains  and  beautiful  valleys, 
and  fast-flowing  streams.  The  region  where  the  simoon  nor  the 
hurricane  ever  comes,  and  the  streams  do  not  become  stagnant,  nor  the 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE.  243 

mosquito  to  siug  his  little  song.  I  dou't  want  to  be  snow-bound  in 
winter,  nor  to  fly  from  a  fiery  hurricane  in  summer;  and  it's  curious 
to  me  that  our  Northern  brethren  don't  bid  farewell,  a  long  farewell, 
to  such  a  country  and  settle  down  in  this  pleasant  land. 

"  The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth 
The  crackling  fagot  flies." 

The  air  is  cool  and  lively.  The  family  have  peartined  up,  and 
everything  is  lovely  around  the  farmer's  comfortable  fire.  How  invig- 
orating is  the  first  chilling  breeze  of  coming  winter.  The  hungry 
horses  nicker  for  their  corn ;  the  cattle  follow  you  around ;  the  pesky 
pigs  squeal  at  your  feet,  and  this  dependence  of  the  brutes  upon  us 
for  their  daily  food  makes  a  man  feel  his  consequence  as  he  struts 
among  them  like  a  little  king.  The  love  of  dominion  is  very  natural. 
It  provokes  a  kindliness  of  heart,  and  if  a  man  hasn't  got  anything- 
else  to  lord  it  over  it's  some  comfort  to  love  and  holler  at  his  dog.  I've 
seen  the  day  when  I  strutted  around  among  my  darkies  like  a  patri- 
arch. I  felt  like  I  was  running  an  unlimited  monarchy  on  a  limited 
scale.  And  Mrs.  Arp  felt  that  way  too.  Sometimes  in  my  dreams  I 
still  hear  the  music  of  her  familiar  call,  "Becky,  why  don't  you  come 
along  with  that  coal-hod  ? "  "  I'se  a  comin',  mam."  "  Kosanna,  what 
in  the  world  are  you  doing;  havent  you  found  that  needle  yet?" 
"I'se  most  found  it,  mam."  Poor  thing;  patient  and  proud,  she 
hunts  her  own  needles  now,  and  the  coal-hod  falls  to  me. 

But  we  still  live,  thank  the  good  Lord,  and  are  worrying  through 
the  checkered  life  as  gracefully  as  possible.  What's  the  use  of  brood- 
ing over  trouble  when  you  can't  help  it?  Sometimes,  when  a  rainy 
day  comes  and  all  out-doors  is  wet  and  sloppy,  and  the  dogs  track  mud 
in  the  piazza,  and  the  children  have  to  be  penned  up  in  the  house, 
and  everything  is  gloomy,  we  get  sad  and  look  on  the  dark  side,  and 
long  for  things  we  havent  got.  When  the  little  chaps  play  hide  and 
seek  till  they  get  tired,  and  shove  the  chairs  around  for  cars  and 
engines,  and  look  at  all  the  pictures,  and  cut  up  all  the  newspapers, 
and  turn  summersets  on  their  little  bed,  and  then  get  restless  and 
whine  around  for  freedom,  Mrs.  Arp  opens  her  school  and  stands  'em 
up  by  the  buro  to  say  their  lessons. 

"Now,  Carl,  let  me  see  if  you  can  say  your  psalm.  Put  your 
hands  down  and  hold  up  your  head," 


244  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd.     I  shall  not  want.     He — he — he — " 

"Let  that  fly  alone,  and  put  your  hands  down.  He  maketh  me  to 
lie  down — " 

"He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures.     He,  he." 

"Quit  pulling  at  that  curtain.     He  leadeth  me — " 

"He  leadeth  me.  La,  mamma,  yonder  comes  a  covered  wagon.  I 
speck  it's  got  apples." 

"Carl,  stand  away  from  that  window.     If  I  take  a  switch  to  you 
ril  make  you  look  after  apple  wagons.     He  leadeth  me." 
"He  leadeth  me — in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever." 

"Bless  my  soul,  if  he  hasn't  skipped  over  to  the  very  end.  Where 
are  you  going  now?" 

"Mamma,  I  want  a  drink  of  water — mamma,  please  give  me  and 
Jessie  an  apple." 

"No,  sir,  you  shan't  smell  of  an  apple.  Every  time  I  try  to  teach 
you  something  you  want  water,  or  an  apple,  or  go  to  catching  flies. 
I  wish  I  had  that  switch  that's  up  on  the  clock." 

"I'll  get  it  for  you,"  said  I. 

' '  No  you  needent,  either.  Just  go  on  with  your  writing.  I  wish 
you  would  let  me  manage  the  childi-en.  All  the  learning  they  ever 
get  I  have  to  ding  doug  it  into  'em.  "When  I  want  the  switch  I  can 
get  it.     Here,  Jessie,  come  and  say  your  verses." 

And  Jessie  goes  through  with  "Let  dogs  delight"  like  a  daisy. 

Oh,  she's  smart  as  a  steel  trap — just  like  her  mother.  I  wish  you 
could  see  Mrs.  Arp's  smile  when  some  other  woman  comes  along  and 
norates  the  smart  sayings  of  her  juvenile. 

"  Aint  it  strange,"  says  she  to  me,  "how  blinded  most  mothers  are 
about  theii"  children.  Mrs.  Trotter  thinks  her  Julia  a  world's  wonder, 
but  Jessie  says  things  every  day  a  heap  smarter,  and  I  never  thought 
anything  about  it." 

"  Jesso,"  says  I;  "children  are  shore  to  be  smart  when  they  have  a 
smart  mother.     Their  meanness  all  comes  from  the  old  man." 

But  the  rainy  days  don't  last  forever.  Sunshine  follows  cloud  and 
storm  and  darkness.  In  the  journey  of  life  the  mountains  loom  up 
before  us,  and  they  look  high  and  steep  and  rugged,  but  somehow 
they  always  disappear  just  before  we  get  to  them,  and  then  we  can 
look  back  and  feel  ashamed  that  we  borrowed  so  much  trouble  and  had 
60  much  anxiety  for  nothing.     What  a  great  pile  of  miserable  fears 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  245 

-we  build  up  every  day.  It's  good  for  a  man  to  ruminate  over  it  and 
resolve  to  have  more  faith  in  providence,  and  I  am  ruminating  now, 
for  I  went  to  town  to-day  to  attend  a  little  court  that  had  my  tenant's 
cotton  money  all  tangled  up  by  the  lawyers,  and  I  never  expected  to 
get  my  share,  but  I  did  and  I  feel  happy.  Mrs.  Arp  had  told  the  chil- 
dren she  would  like  to  go  and  do  some  shopping  for  them  but  she 
knew  that  I  was  so  poor  and  they  would  have  to  do  without. 

So  when  I  came  home  and  found  her  stitching  away  with  a  sad 
expression  on  her  countenance,  I  pulled  out  the  22  dollars  of  cotton 
money,  and  assuming  a  pathetic  attitude  exclaimed : 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 
My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thine  own,  thy  long-lost  William  here, 
Kestored  to  Heaven  and  thee." 

And  I  laid  the  shining  silver  in  her  lap.  In  about  two  minutes 
everything  was  calm  and  serene,  and  we  had  music  that  night  and 
Mrs.  Arp  played  on  the  piano  and  sang  some  of  the  songs  of  her  girl- 
Lood.     It's  most  astounding  what  a  little  money  can  do. 


246  The  Fakm  and  The  FiREsmE. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


Uncle  Tom  Barker. 

Uncle  Tom  Barker  was  much  of  a  man.  He  had  been  wild  and 
reckless,  and  feared  not  God  nor  regarded  man,  but  one  day  at  a 
camp-meeting,  while  Bishop  Gaston  was  shaking  up  the  sinners  and 
scorching  them  over  the  infernal  pit,  Tom  got  alarmed,  and  before  the 
meeting  was  over  he  professed  religion  and  became  a  zealous,  outsj^oken 
convert,  and  declared  his  intention  of  going  forth  into  the  world  and 
preaching  the  gospel.  He  was  terribly  in  earnest,  for  he  said  he  had 
lost  a  power  of  time  and  must  make  it  up.  Tom  was  a  rough  talker, 
but  he  was  a  good  one,  and  knew  right  smart  of  "scripter,"  and  a  good 
many  of  the  old-fashioned  hymns  by  heart.  The  conference  thought 
he  was  a  pretty  good  fellow  to  send  out  into  the  border  country  among 
the  settlers,  and  so  Tom  straddled  his  old  flea-bitten  gray,  and  in  due 
time  was  circuit  riding  in  North  Mississippi. 

In  course  of  time  Tom  acquired  notoriety,  and  from  his  strong 
language  and  stronger  gestures,  and  his  muscular  eloquence,  they 
called  him  old  "Sledge  Hammer,"  and  after  awhile,  "Old  Sledge,"  for 
short.  Away  down  in  one  corner  of  his  territory  there  was  a  black- 
smith shop  and  a  wagon  shop  and  a  whisky  shop  and  a  post-office  at 
Bill  Jones's  crossroads;  and  Bill  kept  all  of  them,  and  was  known  far 
and  wide  as  "Devil  Bill  Jones,"  so  as  to  distinguish  him  from  'Squire 
Bill  the  magistrate.  Devil  Bill  had  sworn  that  no  preacher  should 
ever  toot  a  horn  or  sing  a  hymn  in  the  settlement,  and  if  any  of  the 
cussed  hypocrites  ever  dared  to  stop  at  the  crossroads,  he'd  make  him 
dance  a  hornpipe  and  sing  a  hymn,  and  whip  him  besides.  And  Bill 
Jones  meant  just  what  he  said,  for  he  had  a  mortal  hate  for  the  men 
of  God.  It  was  reasonably  supposed  that  Bill  could  and  would  do 
what  he  said,  for  his  trade  at  the  anvil  had  made  him  strong,  and 
everybody  knew  that  he  had  as  much  brute  courage  as  was  necessary. 
And  so  Uncle  Tom  was  advised  to  take  roundance  and  never  tackle 
the  crossroads.     He  accepted  this  for  a  time,  and  left  the  people  to- 


I  See  Tom  Barker  Risin'  of  the  Hill. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fikeside.  247 

the  bad  influence  of  Devil  Bill ;  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  not  doing- 
the  Lord's  will,  aud  whenever  he  thought  of  the  women  and  children 
living  in  darkness  and  growing  up  in  infidelity,  he  would  groan. 

One  night  he  prayed  over  it  with  great  earnestness,  and  vowed  to 
do  the  Lord's  Avill  if  the  Lord  would  give  him  light,  and  it  seemed  ta 
him  as  he  rose  from  his  knees  that  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt — he 
must  go.  Uncle  Tom  never  dallied  about  anything  when  his  mind 
was  made  up.  He  went  right  at  it  like  killing  snakes ;  and  so  next 
morning  as  a  "nabor"  passed  on  his  way  to  Bill's  shop.  Uncle  Tom 
said : 

"My  friend,  will  you  please  carry  a  message  to  Bill  Jones  for  me? 
Do  you  tell  him  that  if  the  Lord  is  willin',  I  will  be  at  the  crossroads 
to  preach  next  Saturday  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  am  shore  the  Lord 
is  willin'.  Tell  him  to  please  'norate'  it  in  the  settlement  about, 
and  ax  the  women  and  children  to  come.  Tell  Bill  Jones  I  will  stay 
at  his  house,  God  willin',  and  I'm  shore  he's  willin'  and  I'll  preach 
Sunday,  too,  if  things  git  along  harmonious." 

When  Bill  Jones  got  the  message  he  was  amazed,  astounded,  and 
his  indignation  knew  no  bounds.  He  raved  and  cursed  at  the  "onsult," 
as  he  called  it — the  "onsulting  message  of  'Old  Sledge'" — and  he 
swore  that  he  would  hunt  him  up,  and  whip  him,  for  he  knowed  that 
he  wouldn't  dare  to  come  to  the  crossroads. 

But  the  "nabors"  whispered  it  around  that  "Old  Sledge"  would 
come,  for  he  was  never  known  to  make  an  appointment  and  break  it; 
and  there  was  an  old  horse-thief  who  used  to  run  with  Murrel's  gang, 
who  said  he  used  to  know  Tom  Barker  when  he  was  a  sinner  and  had 
seen  him  fight,  and  he  was  much  of  a  man. 

So  it  spread  like  wild-fire  that  "Old  Sledge"  was  coming,  and  Devil 
Bill  was  "gwine"  to  whip  him  and  make  him  dance  and  sing  a  "hime,"^ 
and  treat  to  a  gallon  of  peach  brandy  besides. 

Devil  Bill  had  his  enemies,  of  course,  for  he  was  a  hard  man,  and 
one  way  or  another  had  gobbled  up  all  the  surplus  of  the  "nabor- 
hood"  and  had  given  nothing  in  exchange  but  whiskey,  and  these 
enemies  had  long  hoped  for  somebody  to  come  and  turn  him  down. 
They,  too,  circulated  the  astounding  news,  and,  without  committing- 
themselves  to  either  party,  said  that  h — 11  would  break  loose  on  Satur- 
day at  the  crossroads,  and  that  "Old  Sledge"  or  the  devil  would  have 
to  go  under. 


248  The  Farm  and  The  Firesuje. 

On  Friday,  the  settlers  began  to  drop  into  the  crossroads  under  pre- 
tense of  business,  but  really  to  get  the  bottom  facts  of  the  rumors  that 
were  afloat. 

Devil  Bill  knew  full  well  what  they  came  for,  and  he  talked  and 
cursed  more  furiously  than  usual,  and  swore  that  anybody  who  would 
come  expecting  to  see  "Old  Sledge"  tomorrow  was  an  infernal  fool,  for 
he  wasn't  a-coming.  He  laid  bare  his  strong  arms  and  shook  his  long 
hair  and  said  he  wished  the  lying,  deceiving  hypocrite  would  come  for 
it  had  been  nigh  on  to  fourteen  years  since  he  had  made  a  preacher 
dance, 

Saturday  morning  by  nine  o'clock  the  settlers  began  to  gather. 
They  came  on  foot  and  on  horseback,  and  in  carts — men,  women  and 
children,  and  before  eleven  o'clock  there  were  more  people  at  the 
crossroads  than  had  ever  been  there  before.  Bill  Jones  was  mad  at 
their  credulity,  but  he  had  an  eye  to  business,  and  kept  behind  his 
counter  and  sold  more  whiskey  in  an  hour  than  he  had  sold  in  a 
month.  As  the  appointed  hour  drew  near  the  settlers  began  to  look 
down  the  long,  straight  road  that  "Old  Sledge"  would  come,  if  he 
came  at  all,  and  every  man  whose  head  came  in  sight  just  over  the 
rise  of  the  distant  hill  was  closely  scrutinized. 

More  than  once  they  said,  "Yonder  he  comes — that's  him,  shore." 
But  no,  it  wasn't  him. 

Some  half  a  dozen  had  old  bull's-eye  silver  watches,  and  they  com- 
pared time,  and  just  at  10:55  o'clock  the  old  horse  thief  exclaimed : 

"I  see  Tom  Barker  a  risin'  of  the  hill.  I  hain't  seed  him  for  eleven 
years,  but,  gintlemen,  that  ar'  him,  or  I'm  a  liar." 

And  it  was  him. 

As  he  got  nearer  and  nearer,  a  voice  seemed  to  be  coming  with  him, 
and  some  said,  "He's  talkin'  to  himself,"  another  said.  He's  a  talkin' 
to  God  Almighty,"  and  another  said,  "I'll  be  durned  if  he  ain't  a 
praying,"  but  very  soon  it  was  decided  that  he  was  "singin'  of  a 
hime." 

Bill  Jones  was  soon  advised  of  all  this,  and,  coming  up  to  the  front, 
said:  "Darned  if  he  ain't  singing  before  I  axed  him,  but  I'll  make 
him  sing  another  tune  till  he  is  tired.  I'll  pay  him  for  his  onsulting 
message.  I'm  not  a-gwine  to  kill  him  boys.  I'll  leave  life  in  his  rot- 
ton  old  carcass,  but  that's  all.  If  any  of  you'ens  want  to  hear  'Old 
Sledge'  preach,  you'll  have  to  go  ten  miles  from  the  road  to  do  it." 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  249 

Slowly  and  solemnly  the  preacher  came.  As  he  drew  near  he  nar- 
Towed  down  his  tune  and  looked  kindly  upon  the  crowd.  He  was 
a  massive  man  in  frame,  and  had  a  heavy  suit  of  bark  brown  hair; 
but  his  face  was  clean  shaved,  and  showed  a  nose  and  lips  and  chin 
of  firmness  and  great  determination. 

"Look  at  him,  boys,  and  mind  your  eye,"  said  the  horse  thief. 

"^Vhere  will  I  find  my  friend,  Bill  Jones?"  inquired  "Old  Sledge." 

All  round  they  pointed  him  to  the  man. 

Riding  up  close  he  said:  "My  friend  and  brother,  the  good  Lord 
bas  sent  me  to  you,  and  I  ask  your  hospitality  for  myself  and  my 
beast,"  and  he  slowly  dismounted  and  faced  his  foe  as  though  expect- 
ing a  kind  reply. 

The  crisis  had  come  and  Bill  Jones  met  it. 

"You  infernal  old  hypocrite;  you  cussed  old  shaved-faced  scoun- 
drel; didn't  you  know  that  I  had  swored  an  oath  that  I  would  make 
you  sing  and  dance,  and  whip  you  besides  if  you  ever  dared  to  pizen 
these  crossroads  with  your  shoe-tracks?  Now  sing,  d — n  you,  sing 
and  dance  as  you  sing,"  and  he  emphasized  his  command  with  a  ring- 
ing slap  with  his  open  hand  upon  the  parson's  face. 

"Old  Sledge"  recoiled  with  pain  and  surprise. 

Recovering  in  a  moment,  he  said : 

"Well,  Brother  Jones,  I  did  not  expect  so  warm  a  welcome,  but  if 
this  be  your  crossroads  manners,  I  suppose  I  must  sing;"  and  as  Devil 
Bill  gave  him  another  slap  on  his  other  jaw  he  began  with : 
"My  soul,  be  on  thy  guard." 

And  with  his  long  arm  suddenly  and  swiftly  gave  Devil  Bill  an 
open  bander  that  nearly  knocked  him  off  his  feet,  while  the  parson 
continued  to  sing  in  a  splendid  tenor  voice : 
"Ten  thousand  foes  arise." 

Never  was  a  lion  more  aroused   to  frenzy  than  was  Bill   Jones. 

With  his  powerful  arm  he  made  at  "Old  Sledge"  as  if  to  annihilate  him 

with  one  blow,  and  many  horrid  oaths,  but  the  parson  fended  off  the 

stroke  as  easily  as  a  practised  boxer,  and  with  his  left  hand  dealt  Bill 

a  settler  on  his  peepers  as  he  continued  to  sing: 

"Oh,  watch,  and  fight,  and  pray, 
The  battle  ne'er  give  o'er." 

But  Jones  was  plucky  to  desperation,  and  the  settlers  were  watch- 
ing Avith  bated  breath.     The  crisis  was  at  hand,  and  he  squared  him- 


250  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

self,  and  his  clenched  fists  flew  thick  and  fast  upon  the  parson's  frame, 

and  for  awhile  disturbed  his  equilibrium  and  his  song.     But  he  rallied 

quickly  and  began  the  offensive,  as  he  sang : 

"  Ne'er  think  the  victory  won, 
Nor  lay  thine  armor  down — " 

He   backed  his  adversary  squarely  to  the  wall  of  his   shop,   and 
seized  him  by  the  throat,  and  mauled  him  as  he  sang : 
"  Fight  on,  my  soul,  till  death — " 

Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  was,  that  "Old  Sledge"  whipped 
him  and  humbled  him  to  the  ground,  and  then  lifted  him  up  and 
helped  to  restore  him,  and  begged  a  thousand  pardons. 

When  Devil  Bill  had  retired  to  his  house  and  was  being  cared  for 
by  his  wife,  "Old  Sledge"  mounted  a  box  in  front  of  the  grocery  and 
preached  righteousness  and  temperance,  and  judgment  to  come,  to 
that  people. 

He  closed  his  solemn  discourse  with  a  brief  history  of  his  own  sin- 
ful life  before  his  conversion  and  his  humble  work  for  the  Lord  ever 
since,  and  he  besought  his  hearers  to  stop  and  think — "  Stop,  poor 
sinner,  stop  and  think,"  he  cried  in  alarming  tones. 

There  were  a  few  men  and  many  women  in  that  crowd  whose  eyes, 
long  unused  to  the  melting  mood,  dropped  tears  of  repentance  at  the 
preacher's  kind  and  tender  exhortation.  Bill  Jones's  wife,  poor 
woman,  had  crept  humbly  into  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  for  she  had 
long  treasured  the  memories  of  her  childhood,  when  she,  too,  had 
gone  with  her  good  mother  to  hear  preaching.  In  secret  she  had  pined 
and  lamented  her  husband's  hatred  for  religion  and  for  preachers. 
After  she  had  washed  the  blood  from  his  swollen  face  and  dressed  his 
wounds  she  asked  him  if  she  might  go  down  and  hear  the  preacher. 
For  a  minute  he  was  silent  and  seemed  to  be  dumb  with  amazement. 
He  had  never  been  whipped  before  and  had  suddenly  lost  confidence 
in  himself  and  his  infidelity. 

"Go  'long,  Sally,"  he  answered,  "if  he  can  talk  like  he  can  fight 
and  sing,  maybe  the  Lord  did  send  him.  It's  all  mighty  strange  to 
me,"  and  he  groaned  in  anguish.  His  animosity  seemed  to  have 
changed  into  an  anxious,  wondering  curiosity,  and  after  Sally  had 
gone,  he  left  his  bed  and  drew  near  to  the  window  where  he  could  hear. 

' '  Old  Sledge  "  made  an  earnest,  soul-reaching  prayer,  and  his  plead- 
ing with  the  Lord  for  Bill  Jones's  salvation  and  that  of  his  wife  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  251 

children  reached  the  window  where  Bill  was  sitting,  and  he  heard  it. 
His  wife  returned  in  tears  and  took  a  seat  beside  him,  and  sobbed  her 
heart's  distress,  but  said  nothing.  Bill  bore  it  for  awhile  in  thought- 
ful silence,  and  then  putting  his  bruised  and  trembling  hand  in  hers, 
said:  "Sally,  if  the  Lord  sent  'Old  Sledge'  here,  and  maybe  he 
did,  I  reckon  you  had  better  look  after  his  horse."  And  sure  enough 
"Old  Sledge"  stayed  there  that  night  and  held  family  prayer,  and 
the  next  day  he  preached  from  the  piazza  to  a  great  multitude,  and 
sang  his  favorite  hymn : 

"  Am  I  a  soldier  of  the  Cross  ?" 
And  when  he  got  to  the  third  verse  his  untutored  but  musical  voice 
seemed  to  be  lifted  a  little  higher  as  he  sang : 

"  Sure  I  must  fight  if  I  would  reign, 
Increase  my  courage,  Lord." 

Devil  Bill  was  converted  and  became  a  changed  man.  He  joined 
the  church,  and  closed  his  grocery  and  helped  to  build  a  meeting 
house,  and  it  was  always  said  and  believed  that  "  Old  Sledge"  mauled 
the  grace  into  his  unbelieving  soul,  and  it  never  would  have  got  in  any 
other  way. 


252  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  L. 


Bill  Arp  on  Josh  Billings. 

Josh  Billings  is  dead,  and  the  world  will  miss  him.  He  was  a  suc- 
cess in  his  way,  and  it  was  not  a  bad  way.  He  did  no  harm.  He 
did  much  good,  for  he  gave  a  passing  pleasure  and  gave  it  frequently, 
and  left  the  odor  of  good  precepts  that  lingered  with  us.  He  waa 
jEsop  and  Ben  Franklin,  condensed  and  abridged.  His  quaint-phonetic 
spelling  spiced  his  maxims  and  proverbs,  and  made  them  attractive. 
It  is  curious  how  we  are  attracted  by  the  wise,  pithy  sayings  of  an 
unlettered  man.  It  is  the  contrast  between  his  mind  and  his  culture. 
We  like  contrasts  and  we  like  metaphors  and  striking  comparisons. 
The  more  they  are  according  to  nature  and  everyday  life,  the  better 
they  please  the  masses.  The  cultured  scholar  will  try  to  impress  us 
by  saying  ''facilis  decensus  averni"  but  Billings  brings  the  same  idea 
nearer  home  when  he  says,  "when  a  man  starts  down  hill,  it  looks  like 
everything  is  greased  for  the  occasion."  We  can  almost  see  the  fellow 
sliding  down.  It  is  an  old  thought  that  has  been  dressed  up  fine  for 
centuries,  and  suddenly  appears  in  every  day  clothes.  Wise  men  tell 
us  that  the  people  do  not  think  for  themselves,  but  follow  their  leaders 
in  politics  and  religion.  That  is  true,  and  it  is  tame  and  old.  But 
when  I  asked  the  original  Bill  Arp  how  he  was  going  to  vote  he  said 
he  couldn't  tell  me  until  he  saw  Colonel  Johnson,  and  Colonel  John- 
son wouldn't  know  until  he  talked  to  Judge  Underwood,  and  Judge 
Underwood  wouldn't  know  until  he  heard  from  Aleck  Stephens.  "But 
who  tells  Aleck  Stephens  how  to  vote?"  "I'll  be  dogged  if  I  know." 
Well,  that  was  the  same  old  truth,  but  it  was  undressed,  and  therefore 
more  forcible.  The  philosophic  theory  has  come  down  to  a  homely 
fact. 

Some  years  ago  I  met  Mr.  Shaw  in  New  York,  at  Carleton's  book 
store.  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  Josh  Billings.  In  fact  I  had  for- 
gotton  Billings'  real  name,  and  I  thought  this  man  was  a  Methodist 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  253 

preacher.  He  looked  like  cue,  a  very  solemn  one.  His  long  hair 
-was  parted  in  the  middle  and  silvered  with  gray.  His  face  was  heavily 
bearded,  his  eyes  well  set  and  his  mouth  drooped  at  the  corners.  We 
sat  facing  each  other  for  a  few  moments,  Avhen  suddenly  he  leaned  for- 
ward and  said:  "Friend  Arp,  say  something."  I  knew  then  that 
Mr.  Carleton  had  surprised  me  and  that  this  was  Billings,  for  he  had 
told  me  that  his  friend  Billings  was  going  to  call.  We  soon  got 
friendly  and  familliar,  and  suddenly  he  inquired,  "how  is  my  friend 
Big  Joiin?"  "Dead,"  said  I.  "And  how  is  that  faithful  steer?" 
said  he.  "Dead,"  I  replied.  With  a  mock  sorrow  he  wiped  his  eyes 
and  remarked,  "hence  these  tears."     (Steers.) 

While  we  were  talking,  a  lad  of  the  house  came  back  and  said  there 
was  a  man  in  a  balloon  and  we  could  see  him  from  the  front.  We  all 
went  forward  and  we  watched  the  daring  seronaut  soar  away  until  he 
was  out  of  sight  and  we  took  seats  near  the  door.  Billings  heaved  a 
sigh  and  said,  "I  feel  very  bad,  my  friends.  That  sight  distresses 
me."  We  asked  him  why,  and  he  said,  "It  carries  me  back  to  the 
scenes  of  my  early  youth,  and  reminds  me  of  a  sad  event."  We 
waited  a  moment  for  him  to  recover  from  his  depression,  and  he  said : 
"I  was  an  indolent,  trifling  boy.  I  wouldn't  work  and  I  wouldn't 
study  at  school.  I  had  a  longing  to  get  away  from  home  and  go 
West.  Most  everybody  was  going  West,  and  so  one  morning  my  father 
said  to  me:  "Henry,  I  reckon  you  had  better  go.  You  are  not 
doing  any  good  here."  And  so  he  gave  me  ten  dollars  and  a  whole 
lot  of  advice,  and  my  mother  fixed  me  up  a  little  bundle  of  clothes 
and  I  started.  That  money  lasted  me  until  I  got  away  out  to  Illinois, 
for  I  worked  a  little  along  the  way  to  pay  for  lodging  and  vittels,  but 
at  last  it  was  all  gone,  and  my  shoes  were  worn  out,  and  when  I  got 
to  a  little  village  one  afternoon  I  was  homesick  and  friendless,  and  I 
didn't  know  what  to  do  next.  I  noticed  that  the  people  were  all  going 
one  way,  and  they  told  me  they  were  going  out  to  the  suburbs  to  see  a 
man  go  up  in  a  balloon.  So  I  followed  the  crowd  and  when  I  got 
there  I  saw  a  little  dirty  Italian  sitting  down  on  an  old  dingy  balloon, 
and  there  was  a  fellow  going  around  with  a  hat  in  his  hand  trying  to 
make  up  ten  dollars.  The  little  Italian  said  he  would  go  up  for  that 
money.  But  the  fellow  couldn't  make  it.  He  counted  the  money 
and  had  only  six  dollars  and  a  half,  and  so  he  gave  it  up,  and  waa 
about  to  give  the  money  back  when  I  thought  I  saw  my  opportunity. 


254  The  Farm  and  The  Fieeshje. 

I  was  sorry  for  the  Italian  and  sorry  for  myself,  and  so  I  whispered  to 
him  and  asked  him  if  he  would  give  me  all  over  ten  dollars  that  I 
could  make  up  and  he  said  'yes,  all  over  eight  dollars,'  Well,  I  had 
the  gift  of  speech  pretty  lively,  and  I  went  round  and  round  among 
the  folks  and  told  them  how  this  poor,  little,  sunburnt  son  of  Italy  came 
three  thousand  miles  from  his  home  to  minister  to  their  pleasure  and 
put  his  life  in  peril,  and  it  Avas  a  shame  that  we  couldn't  make  him  up 
the  pitiful  sum  of  ten  dollars.  I  soon  got  the  crowd  in  good  humor,  and 
in  about  five  minutes  I  had  made  up  eighteen  dollars.  I  felt  proud 
and  happy,  and  said:  'Now,  my  friend,  fire  up,'  and  I  helped  him  to 
fire  up.  The  old  balloon  was  patched  and  leaky,  and  I  thought  it 
would  burst  before  we  got  ready,  for  we  piled  the  gas  in  heavy. 
Before  long  the  little  chap  was  in  the  basket,  and  we  cut  the  ropes  and 
away  she  went.  It  was  a  calm,  still  day  in  June — not  a  breath  of  air 
to  drift  the  balloon  from  a  perpendicular.  Up,  up,  she  went,  grow- 
ing smaller  and  smaller,  until  finally  she  was  but  a  tiny  speck  in  the 
zenith.  We  nearly  broke  our  necks  looking  at  it,  and  sure  enough, 
in  a  few  minutes  more  she  was  gone.  Not  a  spy-glass  could  find  it. 
We  watched  all  the  evening  for  the  little  fellow  to  come  back  in  sight, 
but  he  never  came.  The  shades  of  night  come  over  us  but  no  Italian. 
The  crowd  dispersed  one  by  one  until  all  were  gone  but  me,  for  I  was 
his  friend  and  treasurer,  you  know.  Next  morning  he  stiU  was  miss- 
ing and  all  that  day  we  made  inquiries  from  the  surrounding  country, 
but  no  Italian  and  no  balloon,  and  from  that  day  to  this  good  hour  he 
has  never  been  heard  from.  I  have  felt  a  heavy  weight  of  responsi- 
bility about  him,  for  I  fear  I  put  in  too  much  gas.  My  hope  is  that 
he  went  dead  straight  to  heaven.  I  have  his  money  in  my  bank,  and 
it  is  drawing  interest." 

And  Josh  wiped  away  another  pretended  tear  of  grief. 

He  was  a  companionable  man  and  talked  without  a  strain.  When 
he  visited  our  little  city  of  Rome  our  people  gave  him  glad  welcome, 
for  he  had  been  long  ministering  to  their  pleasure  and  in  all  his  great 
and  curious  utterances  he  had  never  written  a  line  that  showed  preju- 
dice or  malignity  to  our  people  or  our  section. 

Peace  be  to  his  ashes  and  honor  to  his  memory. 


The  Faiim  akd  The  Fhieside.  255 


CHAPTER  LI. 


The  Code  Duello. 

They  are  the  funniest  things — these  duels.  They  are  both  funny 
and  fantastic.  They  beat  a  circus — that  is  to  say  the  newspaper 
pictures  of  them  beat  the  circus  pictures,  and  it  is  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  the  antics  of  the  performers  are  more  ludicrous  than  the 
•clown  and  the  monkeys  and  the  trick  horse  combined.  I  would  like 
to  be  up  in  a  tree  and  see  a  duel — no  I  wouldent  either.  It  would  be 
safer  to  be  in  front  of  one  of  the  performers.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  these  little  affairs  of  honor  are  just  gotten  up  to  amuse  the  pub- 
lic, and  they  are  a  success  in  that  way.  They  beat  Sullivan  and 
KUrain  in  the  wind  up,  and  the  only  objection  is  we  don't  know  about 
it  until  the  show  is  all  over.  "We  don't  have  a  chance  to  take  sides 
and  bet  on  anybody,  and  if  we  did  we  wouldent  win  or  lose,  for  it  is 
always  a  draw — nobody  hurt,  wonderful  pluck,  amazing  heroism, 
magnanimous  conduct,  noble  bearing,  amicable  adjustment,  but 
nobody  hurt ;  that's  what's  the  matter.  When  it  leaks  out  that  a 
great  show  is  coming,  the  people  want  it  to  come.  If  a  hanging  is 
advertised,  it  is  an  outrage  if  somebody  don't  hang.  If  a  duel  has  to 
be  fouglit  to  preserve  honor,  the  public  want  some  blood.  Honor  or 
death,  honor  or  crippled,  honor  or  hit  somewhere.  But  this  side  wiping 
around  and  fixing  up  the  thing  on  a  wood-pile,  or,  ' '  I'll  retreat  if 
you'll  retreat,"  or,  "  I  dident  mean  what  you  thought  I  meant,"  don't 
satisfy  the  public. 

Some  years  ago  one  of  our  notable  men  called  another  notable  man 
a  thief  and  he  got  challenged  for  it,  and  we  thought  there  was  blood 
on  the  moon,  but  mutual  friends  interposed  and  he  retracted  by  saying 
be  dident  mean  that  he  was  a  personal  thief  but  an  official  thief,  and 
that  was  satisfactory  and  the  affair  was  honorably  adjusted. 

When  an  affair  of  honor  is  settled  now-a-days  we  can't  find  out  who 
■whipped  the  fight — who  was  right  and  who  was  wrong.  The  whole 
matter  is  left  so  mystified  that  the  stakeholders  won't  pay  the  money. 


256  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

In  fact  it  is  sometimes  hard  to  tell  from  the  newspapers  who  were 
doing  the  fighting,  the  principals  or  the  seconds,  or  an  amateur- 
performer  who  recklessly  rushed  in  where  angels  feared  to  tread. 

"  The  combat  thickens — on  ye  brave, 
"Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave." 

Awful  scene — terrific  beyond  expression.  It  reminds  me  of  a  little 
Frenchman  who  was  prancing  around  the  hotel  in  St.  Louis  and  had 
a  little  impudent  terrier  dog  following  him  about.  The  dog  gave  just 
cause  of  offense  to  a  big  whiskered  Kentuckian  who  was  talking  to  a 
friend,  and  with  a  sudden  swing  of  his  boot  he  sent  the  animal  a  rod 
or  two  out  in  the  street.  Quick  as  lightning  the  Frenchman  danced 
up  to  Kentuck,  and  with  violent  gesticulations  exclaimed:  "Vat  for 
you  keek  mon  leetle  tog  ?  Vot  for  me  say  ?  Here  is  mine  card.  I 
demand  de  sateesfacsheon  of  de  shenteel  mon."  The  Kentuckian 
seized  him  gently  by  the  nap  of  the  neck  and  lifted  him  bodily  to  the 
door  and  gave  him  a  kick  outward,  and  then  walked  back  and 
resumed  his  conversation. 

The  Frenchman  spied  an  acquaintance  who  was  passing,  and  rush- 
ing up  to  him  poured  out  this  history:  "Vot  you  call  des  American 
honeur.  He  keek  mon  leetel  tog  and  I  geeve  heem  mine  card  and 
demond  de  sateesfacshun  of  de  genteelhomme,  de  sateesfacshun  of  de 
sword  or  de  peestole — dear  to  de  Frenchman's  heart.  You  tinks  he 
geeve  him  to  me.  No  sare — no  time,  but  mon  Dieu  he  leef  me  up  by 
de  coUare — he  speen  me  roun  and  roun  like  I  was  von  torn  top  and 
keek  me  more  harder  than  de  leetle  tog.  Vot  you  calls  dot,  American 
honeur?  Bah!  I  go  pack  to  La  belle  France  and  hoouts  up  some 
American  and  fights  him.     I  will  have  de  satisfacshun — begor." 

If  retractions  are  to  be  made  they  should  be  very  explicit.  It  is 
related  of  John  Eandolph  that  he  expressed  his  contempt  of  a  man  by 
saying  of  him  that  he  wasn't  fit  to  carry — offal  to  a  bear.  A  retraxit 
was  demanded  or  a  fight,  and  he  promptly  responded  that  he  would 
now  say  that  the  gentleman  was  fit  to  carry — offal  to  a  bear.  This 
proved  satisfactory  and  goes  to  show  how  small  a  retraxit  will  satisfy 
■wounded  honor.  But  it  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  great  nicety  as  to  the 
time  when  the  retraxit  shall  be  made.  Among  all  gentlemen  it  is 
admitted  that  an  apology  should  be  made  just  as  soon  as  the  gentle- 
man has  discovered  he  has  done  another  gentleman  an  injury  or  has, 
■without  just  cause,  wounded  his  feelings;  but  these  mysterious  affairs 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  257 

of  honor  are  very  slow  about  such  things,  and  the  retraxUs  are  not 
allowed  to  be  made  until  a  challenge  has  passed  and  the  seconds  chosen 
and  the  pistols  loaded  and  everything  got  in  readiness  for  a  fight. 
Then  the  retraxit  is  in  order  and  the  honorable  adjustment.  The 
whole  thing  is  methodical,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  It  is  like  a  bill  in 
equity  that  has  nine  parts,  and  there  is  the  accusation  and  the  rejoin- 
der and  the  surrejoinder  and  other  mysteries.  The  fact  is,  considering 
the  funny  and  fantastic  and  harmless  character  of  most  of  the  modern 
duels,  I  think  that  justice's  court  would  be  the  best  tribunal  wherein 
to  settle  such  matters.  The  first  case  I  ever  had,  was  a  case  in  justice's 
court,  where  I  was  employed  to  defend  a  man  who  was  sued  for  thirty 
dollars  worth  of  slander  because  he  had  accused  his  nabor  of  stealing 
his  hog  and  changing  the  mark  from  an  underbit  in  the  right  ear  to  a 
swallow  fork  in  the  left.  After  the  joinder  and  the  rejoinder  and  the 
surrejoinder  the  jury  retired  to  a  log  and  eventually  brought  in  this 
verdict:  "We,  the  jury,  find  for  the  plaintiff  two  dollars  and  fifty 
cents  unless  the  defendant  will  take  back  what  he  said."  I  have  always 
thought  that  was  a  just  verdict,  and  if  ever  any  fool  sends  me  a  chal- 
lenge I  shall  propose  to  leave  the  matter  to  a  jury  in  a  justice  court. 
They  always  give  a  man  a  chance  without  his  having  to  practice  with 
pistols  on  a  tree.  It  is  a  strange  thing  how  a  man  can  hit  the  bull's 
eye  on  a  tree  every  pop  but  can't  hit  a  man  one  time  in  five,  and  yet 
be  perfectly  cool  and  calm  and  serene  a?l  the  time. 

The  books  say  that  duelling  originated  ifi  the  superstitious  ages 
"when  it  was  believed  that  the  fates  or  the  gods  were  on  the  side  of 
truth  and  justice,  and  always  avenged  the  man  who  had  been  wronged. 
The  philosophers  declared  that  there  was  a  mysterious  connection 
between  honor  and  courage  and  between  courage  and  the  nervous 
system,  and  that  when  a  man  was  in  the  wrong  his  courage  wavered, 
and  his  nerves  became  unsteady,  and  so  he  couldn't  fight  to  advantage 
and  was  easily  overcome  by  his  adversary.  There  may  be  something 
in  this,  but  not  a  great  deal,  for  we  do  know  that  the  professional 
duelist  is  generally  in  the  wrong  and  generally  whips  the  fight.  In 
fact,  the  wrong  man  has  most  generally  been  killed  in  all  the  fatal 
duels  of  modern  times.  During  the  past  century  duelling  has  had 
its  chief  support  from  the  army  and  the  navy  where  chivalry  seems  to 
have  centered.  They  talk  about  chivalry  as  though  they  belonged  to 
some  knightly  order  like  unto  the  olden  times  when  Don  Quixote 


258  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

mounted  his  flea-bitten  gray  and  sallied  forth  and  charged  a  windmill 
-with  a  lance  about  twenty  feet  long.  The  word  chivalry  comes  from 
*cheval,"  a  horse,  and  so  if  a  man  was  not  mounted  there  was  no 
chance  to  be  chivalrous.  A  seat  in  a  buggy  won't  do  at  all.  It  won't 
churn  up  heroism  like  the  canter  of  a  horse.  That  was  called  the 
"fantastic  age  of  famished  honor,"  for  honor  was  said  to  be  always 
hungry  for  a  fight  with  somebody,  and  the  knights  started  out  period 
ically  to  provoke  difficulties.  Happy  for  us  that  this  age  has  passed- 
away  and  the  knights  are  unhorsed,  but  unhappily  for  us,  like  the 
comet,  a  portion  of  its  tail  still  lingers  in  the  land,  and  ever  and  anon 
Bome  valiant  knight  shows  up  and  strikes  his  breast  and  exclaims: 
"Mine  honor,  sir,  mine  honor!"  Right  then  I  want  to  rush  to  his 
relief  and  give  him  a  sharpened  pole  and  mount  him  on  some  "Rosi- 
nante'  and  escort  him  to  one  of  these  modern  windmills  that  are 
huilt  to  pump  water  and  tell  him  to  charge  it  until  his  honor  is  satis- 
fied. Most  of  these  chivalric  gentlemen  have  a  very  vague,  indefinite 
idea  of  what  honor  is  and  where  it  is  located.  Hudibras  throws  some 
light  upon  the  seat  of  honor  when  he  tells  of  a  man  who  was  ' '  kicked 
in  the  place  where  honor  is  lodged,"  and  he  says: 

"  A  kick  right  there  hurts  honor  more 
Than  deeper  wounds  when  kicked  hefore. 

This  locates  honor  in  the  back  ground  where  we  will  leave  it. 

Honor  is  like  the  chamelion.  It  takes  any  color  that  suits  its  sur- 
roundings. Aaron  Burr  challenged  Hamilton  in  order  to  preserve  his 
honor,  and  yet  he  was  a  traitor,  an  enemy  of  Washington,  a  libertine 
and  boasted  of  his  amours  and  his  intrigues.  Ka  man  is  going  to 
fight  for  his  honor  he  should  be  sure  that  he  has  not  tarnished  it  by  his 
own  dishonorable  conduct.  If  a  man  is  a  thief  or  a  swindler  or  an 
extortioner  or  a  libertine  or  a  black  mailer,  he  has  no  right  to  chal- 
lenge a  man  for  calling  him  a  liar.  Honor  is  a  very  broad  quality 
and  does  not  split  up  in  parts.  It  makes  up  the  complete  gentleman 
in  all  his  conduct,  though  a  man  may  not  have  told  a  lie,  yet  he  may 
have  no  honor  to  defend,  for  he  had  lost  it  all  in  other  vices.  When 
a  man  can  look  his  fellow-men  in  the  face  and  say,  "Whom  have  I 
defrauded  or  whom  have  I  wronged  or  from  whom  have  I  taken  a 
bribe?"  then  let  him  fight  for  his  honor  if  he  wants  to. 

But  the  average  man  who  has  made  his  money  by  ways  that  are 
dark  and  tricks  that  are  vain  or  who  has  used  deceit,  dishonesty,  hypoc- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  259 

risy  or  oppression  iu  gaining  his  ends,  has  no  right  to  send  or  accept  a 
challenge  to  mortal  combat.  He  must  stand  fair  and  square  before 
the  people  if  he  expects  their  sympathy.  If  he  fights  of  course 
it  is  out  of  respect  to  public  opinion,  for  no  two  men  would  fight  if 
they  were  on  an  island  by  themselves.  And  this  proves  the  duelist  a 
coward,  the  worst  kind  of  a  coward,  for  he  has  more  regard  for  pub- 
lic opinion  than  he  has  for  himself  or  his  family  or  his  friends  or  his 
Maker.  He  knows  that  a  duel  proves  nothing  and  settles  nothing 
and  yet  he  deliberately  lets  public  opinion  outweigh  his  wife  and  his 
children  and  worse  than  all  he  puts  his  soul  in  reach  of  the  devil. 
From  every  moral  standpoint  he  is  a  fool  and  a  coward  and  could 
be  convicted  of  lunacy  in  any  court,  and  ought  to  be.  Lord,  help  us 
all — when  will  this  foolishness  stop?  The  law  is  against  it.  Public 
opinion  is  against  it.  Common  sense  is  against  it  and  so  is  humanity 
and  morality.  Public  opinion  says  that  every  such  case  lowers  our 
moral  standard  at  home  and  belittles  us  abroad.  Public  opinion 
doesn't  care  a  snap  for  Dhe  duel  or  the  duelist.  Duels  prove  noth- 
ing. They  establish  no  man's  character  for  truth  or  integrity. 
They  give  him  no  better  credit  in  bank,  no  more  friends  in  busi- 
ness. Among  decent  peaceable  people  he  is  looked  upon  as  a  partial 
outlaw,  and  they  shrink  from  his  society  for  fear  of  ofl'ending  him. 
Bis  code  of  morals  and  his  peculiar  sense  of  honor  is  a  silent  insult 
to  them  as  though  he  had  said;  *'I  move  in  a  higher  plane 
than  you  common  folks.  I  am  a  man  of  honor — a  gentleman." 
He  has  been  engaged  in  a  dishonorable  business  and  he  knows  it, 
for  he  has  had  to  skulk  around  in  the  night  and  hide  and  dodge 
like  a  thief.  He  does  not  dare  to  fight  on  the  genial,  loving  soil 
of  his  own  State,  for  that  would  disfranchise  him  and  so  he  seeks 
some  other.  In  fact,  the  whole  thing  would  be  as  funny  as  a  farce  if 
nobody  was  concerned  but  the  principals  and  their  seconds.  But 
there  are  parents  and  wives  and  children  and  friends  and  hence  the 
deep  concern.  Then  let  us  have  more  peace  and  less  foolishness.  Let 
a  man  take  part  in  no  show  that  he  has  to  keep  secret  from  his  wife 
or  his  children.  Let  him  undertake  no  peril  that  his  preacher  couldn't 
approve  with  a  parting  prayer  and  benediction.  In  fact,  I  have 
always  wondered  why  the  preacher  was  no^-  taken  along  as  well  as  the 
surgeon,  for  where  the  devil  is,  the  man  of  God  ought  to  have  an  equal 
•chance  to  canture  an  immortal  soul. 


260  Tub  Fai^m  and  Tele  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  LII. 


"Billy  in  the  Low  Grounds." 

Write,  my  child — write  something  to  The  Constitution.  I  don't 
care  what.  I  am  too  nervous.  I  can't  think  my  own  thoughts.  It 
is  perfectly  horrible — awful,  but  I  reckon  it's  all  right.  I  reckon  so. 
I  wish  there  was  not  a  tooth  in  my  head.  "When  they  come,  they 
come  with  pain  and  peril,  and  keep  the  poor  child  miserable,  and 
when  they  go  they  go  with  a  torture  that  no  philosophy  can  endure. 
Oh,  my  poor  jaw — just  look  how  it  is  swollen.  I  am  a  sight.  A 
pitiful  prospect.  I  look  like  a  bloated  bond-holder  on  one  side  of  my 
face  and  no  bonds  to  comfort  me.  I  wonder  what  would  comfort  a 
man  in  my  fix.  I  have  suffered  more  mortal  agony  from  my  teeth 
than  from  everything  else  put  together.  Samson  couldn't  pull  them, 
hardly,  for  they  are  all  riveted  to  the  jawbone.  I  have  been  living 
in  dread  for  a  month,  for  I  knew  that  eyetooth  was  fixing  up  trouble ; 
and  so  yesterday  morning  it  sprung  a  leak  at  the  breakfast  table,  and 
I  jumped  out  of  my  chair.  The  shell  caved  in,  the  nerve  was 
touched,  and  in  my  agony  I  gave  one  groan  and  retired  like  I  was  a 
funeral.  Five  miles  from  town  and  no  doctor.  Don't  put  down 
what  I  suffered  all  that  day,  and  the  night  following,  for  you  can't. 
Mush  poultices  and  camphor  and  paregoric  and  bromide  and  chloro- 
form and  still  the  procession  moved  on,  and  the  jumping,  throbbing 
agony  sent  no  flag  of  truce — no  cessation  of  hostilities.  What  do  I 
care  for  anything  ?  Don't  tell  me  about  Hendricks  being  in  Atlanta. 
I  don't  care  where  he  is.  Yes,  I  do.  He  is  a  good  man,  but  I've  got 
no  time  to  think  about  him  now.  Please  give  me  some  more  of  that 
camphor.  I've  burned  all  the  skin  off*  my  mouth  now  but  it  is  a 
counter-irritant  and  sorter  scatters  the  pain  around.  If  I  had  some 
morphine  I  would  take  it  for  I  want  rest.  I  am  tired.  Oh,  for  one 
short  hour  of  rest. 


Tpte  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  261 

Write  something,  my  daughter — write  to  The  Constitution  and 
explain.  Tell  them  I  am  "Billy  in  the  low  grounds."  I  am  suffer- 
ing and  want  sympathy.  Write  a  note  to  the  doctor,  and  tell  him  to 
come,  come  quick.  I  can't  go  through  another  night.  Oh,  my  coun- 
try. Let  me  try  that  hot  iron  again.  I'll  cook  this  old  fat  jaw  out- 
side and  inside.  I  wish  I  had  no  tongue,  for  I  can't  keep  it  from 
touching  the  plagued  tooth.  Just  look  at  my  gums,  they  have  swelled 
up  so  you  can  hardly  see  the  old  tooth.  Give  me  a  knife  and  a  hand 
glass.  I'll  see  if  I  can't  let  some  blood  out  of  these  strutting  gums. 
I  am  so  nervous  I  can't  hardly  hold  the  knife,  but  here  she  goes.  Oh, 
my  country,  now  give  me  the  camphor  and  I'll  let  it  burn  in  a  new 
place. 

Just  write  a  line  to  The  Constitution,  I  don't  care  what — say  I  am 
sick.  I  wonder  if  the  doctor  will  come.  He  will  kill  me  I  know.  It 
is  awful  to  think  of  cold  steel  clamping  this  tooth  and  being  jammed 
away  up  on  these  gums.  I'll  take  chloroform,  I  reckon,  for  I  can't 
stand  it.  I  am  afraid  he  will  come.  I  want  him  and  I  don't  want  him. 
The  last  tooth  I  had  pulled  I  went  to  the  dentist's  office  like  a  hero 
and  I  was  glad  he  wasn't  in — glad  his  door  was  locked — and  for  two 
more  days  I  endured  my  agony,  and  then  had  to  have  it  pulled  at  last. 
And  he  pulled  me  all  to  pieces,  and  the  chloroform  left  me  before  he 
got  done,  and  I  had  an  awful  time.  The  memory  of  it  is  excruciat- 
ing, and  yet  I  have  got  to  go  through  the  same  thing  again.  "Oh, 
the  pity  of  it,  lago,  the  pity  of  it."  What  has  a  man  got  teeth  for,  I 
would  like  to  know.  It  is  the  brute  that  is  in  him,  the  dog,  or  the 
old  Adam  that  evoluted  from  the  monkeys.  There  is  nothing  God- 
like about  teeth.  They  bite,  that  is  all.  They  are  called  "canines.'' 
I  saw  a  man  bite  another  man's  nose  off,  once — the  teeth  did  it.  The 
eye  is  God-like,  angelic,  beautiful,  harmless.  The  ear  is  a  good  thing, 
too,  for  it  takes  in  the  harmonies  of  nature,  and  makes  music  sweet 
— music,  that  is  the  only  thing  common  to  angels  and  to  men.  The 
nose  is  gentle  and  ornamental,  but  is  not  of  much,  consequence  except 
to  blow  off  a  bad  cold,  and  tell  the  difference  between  cologne  and 
codfish.  But,  the  teeth — well,  I  think  that  false  ones  are  better  than 
the  genuine,  for  they  never  ache.  I  don't  care  for  any  now.  I  am 
tired.  These  women  can  have  eight  or  ten  pulled  at  one  time — ^just  to 
get  a  new  set.  How  in  the  world  do  they  stand  it?  Pride,  I  reckon ; 
womanly  pride,  womanly  nature.     Her  love  of  the  beautiful.     But 


262  The  Farm  and  The  Fireshde. 

we  men  can  wear  a  moustache,  and  hide  a  whole  set  of  rotten  snags. 
If  women  had  beard,  the  dentists  would  perish. 

There  she  goes  again,  and  then  boom!  Let  me  try  some  more  par- 
egoric and  camphor.  Maybe  I  can  go  to  sleep,  after  a  while,  if  I  will 
keep  dosing.  I  wish  I  had  just  a  small  grain  of  dynamite  behind 
that  tooth,  just  at  the  end  of  the  roots;  I  would  explode  it  if  it 
killed  me. 

The  doctor  coming,  you  say!  Merciful  heavens!  Well,  let  him 
come.  In  the  language  of  Patrick  Henry,  '*I  repeat  it  sir,  let  him 
come."  "Lay  on,  McDuff" — cold  steel  forceps,  wrenching,  twisting, 
crushing,  gouging.  I  don't  believe  I  have  got  a  friend  in  the  world. 
I  almost  wish  I  was  dead.  Teeth  are  a  humbug — a  grand  mistake — a 
blunder — an  eye-tooth,  especially,  that  sends  its  root  away  up  under 
the  eye  and  makes  an  abscess  there.  They  say  a  child  is  smart  when 
it  cuts  the  eye-tooth.  I  believe  I  had  rather  do  without  and  be  a  fool. 
I  have  had  rheumatism,  and  all  sorts  of  pains,  but  I  will  compromise 
on  anything  but  the  toothache.  I've  a  great  respect  for  dentists,  for 
they  do  the  best  they  can  to  relieve  mankind  from  this  most  misera- 
ble agony. 

"Good  morning,  doctor.  I  suppose  I  am  the  unfortunate  individual 
you  have  come  to  doctor.  I  am  ready  for  the  rack.  Get  out  your 
chloroform,  and  your  steel-jawed  grabs ;  I  am  ready  for  the  sacrifice. 
Is  that  a  dagger  that  I  see  before  me  ?  " 

Father  is  in  his  little  bed.  He  is  asleep,  now.  The  long  agony  is 
over.  For  nearly  one  hour  we  all  wrestled  with  him,  for  the  chloro- 
form gave  out.  He  had  taken  so  many  things  before  the  doctor  came 
that  chloroform  failed  to  subdue  him.  It  only  made  him  delirious, 
and  when  we  could  not  hold  him  we  called  in  our  blacksmith,  and 
even  then  he  pulled  us  all  over  the  room,  and  the  doctor  had  to  take 
him  on  the  wing.  The  old  shell  crushed  and  the  roots  had  to  be  dug 
out  in  fragments.  It  was  pitiful  to  hear  him  beg  to  go  home.  He 
has  morphine  now,  f^and  will  be  all  right  in  the  morning.  He  told  me 
to  write  you  something,  and  I  have  written.  Bill  Arp,  Per  M. 

Just  now  he  waked  up  and  wanted  to  know  who  whipped  that  fight 
— the  parrot  or  the  monkey.  M. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside,  265 


chapt;er  liil 


William  Gets  Left. 

It  is  home  where  the  heart  is,  and  we  are  all  happy  now.  Here  i» 
the  big  old  family  room  and  the  spacious  fireplace  is  crowded  with  the 
big  back  logs  and  the  front  logs  and  the  top  logs,  and  the  cheerful, 
genial  blaze  leaps  out  at  every  opening  and  makes  us  all  sit  back  in 
the  family  circle,  I  sit  near  the  good  old  window  and  look  out  upon 
the  same  pleasing  prospect  of  fields  and  distant  hills  and  am  com- 
forted. The  dogs  are  in  the  family  ring  and  the  canaries  are  singing 
in  their  cage,  and  the  maltese  cat  is  purring  in  Jessie's  lap.  There  i& 
a  lively  chattering  of  happy  voices  all  around  me,  for  the  long  spell  is- 
broken  and  the  broken  family  almost  united,  I  say  almost,  for  the 
sick  boy  and  his  mother  are  in  town  at  his  sister's,  and  these  children 
have  not  yet  seen  them.  It  was  too  cold  to  bring  him  five  miles  over 
a  frozen  road,  and  so  I  came  out  alone  to  give  them  pleasure  in  broken 
doses,  I  hoped  to  surprise  them  and  peep  in  at  the  window,  but  they 
were  on  the  look  out  down  the  road,  and  have  nearly  looked  a  hole 
through  the  window  pane  in  anxious  expectation.  With  a  scream 
and  a  shout  they  all  came  flying  down  the  hill  to  meet  me,  and  such 
a  time  as  we  all  had,  hugging  and  kissing  and  dancing  around  with 
joy.  They  loaded  me  down  and  I  could  hardly  wag  along  for  their 
embraces.  I  don't  believe  that  folks  are  any  happier  in  heaven,  and 
I  don't  know  that  I  wish  to  be. 

We  left  Sanford  last  Tuesday,  took  the  boy  on  a  cot  over  the  long- 
wharf  that  stretches  away  out  into  the  lake  and  put  him  aboard  the 
beautiful  steamer,  the  "City  of  Jacksonville."  We  set  him  down  in  an 
easy  chair,  and  when  the  warning  bell  was  rung  we  bade  a  sweet  good- 
by  to  kindred  and  friends  and  soon  the  engines  were  unloosed  and  the 
big  wheels  turned  and  the  boat  moved  down  the  lake  with  quivering- 
throbs.  The  anxious  mother  watched  her  boy  with  watery  eyes  as  he 
looked  out  greedily  upon  the  bright  waters  and  feasted  his  eyes  once 


•264  The  Farm  axd  The  Fireside. 

more  upon  scenes  outside  of  a  sick  chamber.  The  boy  has  no  use  of 
iis  lower  limbs  and  has  to  be  carried  in  arms  from  place  to  place,  and 
it  was  no  small  trouble  to  get  him  through  narrow  doors  and  up  and 
down  the  stairs  and  into  the  cars,  but  next  morning  we  got  him  safely 
on  a  sleeper  at  Jacksonville  and  then  breathed  easier,  for  it  was  the 
last  transfer  until  we  got  to  Macon. 

Waycross.  I  see  Waycross  now.  I  expect  to  see  Waycross  in 
visions  by  day  and  in  dreams  by  night  for  years  to  come.  I  have 
memories  of  "Waycross.  I  like  "Waycross,  for  it  is  a  bright  and  pleas- 
ant town,  and  has  good  hotels  and  pleasant  homes,  and  is  kept  lively 
with  moving  trains,  but  I  had  an  awful  time  at  "Waycross.  Our  train 
stopped  there  and  had  to  wait  for  a  train  on  another  road,  they  said, 
and  I  got  out  with  other  passengers  and  walked  the  broad  platform, 
"but  keeping  an  eye  upon  our  sleeper  and  within  easy  reach  of  it. 
There  were  two  sleepers  behind  ours  that  belonged  to  the  train,  and  so 
I  meandered  along  down  to  where  a  newsboy  was  selling  Savannah 
morning  papers.  I  gave  him  a  quarter  and  was  quietly  waiting  for 
the  change  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  darkey  say:  "Macon  is  just 
a  slippin'  and  a  slidin'  oft."  I  looked  around  instantly  to  see  what  he 
meant,  and  sure  enough  she  was  already  a  hundred  yards  away  moving 
like  a  black  snake  over  the  ground  and  getting  faster  with  every 
moment.  The  two  rear  sleepers  had  been  cut  off  and  I  did  not  know 
it.  I  will  never  forget  the  concentrated  misery  of  that  moment  when 
I  realized  that  my  wife  and  helpless  boy  were  gone  and  I  was  left. 
My  heart  sank  down,  my  voice  left  me,  and  all  my  philosophy  was 
gone.  I  grew  weak  and  faintish,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  to  collect 
myself  and  consider  the  awful  situation.  Whatwill  they  do?  "When 
will  they  find  out  that  I  am  not  somewhere  on  the  train?  The  boy 
will  soon  want  me,  I  know,  and  his  mother  will  send  the  porter  to 
hunt  me  up.  The  conductor  will  soon  call  for  our  fare,  and  I  have 
the  passes,  and  my  wife  no  money.  By  and  by  she  will  learn  that  I 
am  not  on  the  train,  and  then,  ah!  then.  I  could  see  the  tears  in  her 
eyes  and  the  quivering  lips,  and  the  nervous  restlessness  of  the  boy, 
and  there  was  no  help.  Arousing  myself,  I  hurried  to  the  telegraph 
that  was  clicking  near  by  and  asked  hurriedly  for  a  dispatch  to  be  sent 
to  Jesup  so  that  the  operator  there  might  tell  the  conductor  or  my 
wife  that  I  was  safe,  and  would  overtake  them  at  Macon.  My  anxiety 
Tvas  intense,  but  I  got  no  sjmipathy.     The  youth  said  all  right,  and  I 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  265 

waited  for  an  assurance  from  the  operator  at  Jesup  that  he  would 
attend  to  it.  I  called  three  times  for  an  answer  from  him,  but  got 
none.  When,  for  the  third  time,  I  asked  and  almost  begged  for  him 
to  ask  for  a  reply,  he  said  with  uncivil  indifference:  "I  have  got  no 
time,  sir;  I  am  busy."  Well,  he  was  very  busy — smoking  a  cigar  and 
chatting  with  a  friend.  He  was  not  at  the  instrument.  A  gentleman 
near  by  noted  the  incivility  and  told  me  I  had  better  go  up  to  the 
Western  Union  if  I  wanted  attention.  This  was  news  to  me,  for  I 
had  thought  all  the  time  that  this  was  the  Western  Union,  but  sud- 
denly found  that  it  was  only  a  railroad  office.  I  had  paid  him  for  a 
dispatch  to  Mr.  Brown,  of  Macon,  that  called  for  an  answer,  and  two 
hours  had  passed  and  none  had  come.  So  I  went  to  the  Western 
Union  and  repeated  to  Mr.  Brown  and  soon  had  a  reply  that  he  would 
meet  my  wife  and  boy  and  take  care  of  them.  Her  desolation  and 
distress  was  complete  when  she  learned  that  I  was  missing — nobody 
called  on  her  or  the  conductor  at  Jesup.  The  train  rolled  on  and 
passed  Eastman  before  her  fears  began,  and  from  there  to  Macon  she 
imagined  I  had  fallen  from  the  platform  or  in  some  Avay  had  met  my 
death,  and  when  at  last  she  reached  Macon,  and  Mr.  Brown  came  in 
the  sleeper  and  told  her  I  was  all  right,  she  and  the  boy  both  cried 
with  joy.  The  Brown  house  gave  them  kind  welcome  and  every  atten- 
tion. They  had  a  good  night's  rest  and  were  only  aroused  by  a  vigor- 
ous knock  at  the  doer  at  four  o'clock  next  morning.  That  was  me. 
The  poet  says: 

"  One  glorious  hour  of  crowded  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 

And  just  so  we  can  sometimes  live  longer  and  live  more  in  a  minute 
than  at  any  other  time  in  a  month.  I  dident  blame  her  for  slipping 
off  and  leaving  me,  and  she  didn't  blame  me  for  stopping  at  Waycross, 
but  now  that  the  long  agony  is  over,  we  can  smile  at  our  mutual  woes 
and  fears.  My  kind  and  considerate  wife  has  not  told  told  it  on  me 
but  fourteen  times  up  to  this  date,  and  I  don't  expect  to  hear  of  it 
any  longer  than  I  live.  She  gently  hinted  yesterday  that  she  didn't 
suppose  that  I  would  ever  mention  Waycross  in  my  Sunday  letter,  for 
it  was  most  too  personal  and  was  not  of  a  character  to  interest  the 
public.  So  you  perceive  I  have  taken  the  hint  and  told  it  all  just  as 
it  was.  As  General  Lee  said  at  the  battle  of  Gettysburgh:  "It  was 
All  my  fault.     It  was  all  my  fault." 


266  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE. 

I  shall  step  off  no  more  trains  to  buy  a  paper,  and  I  no\y  warn  all 
travelers  to  stand  by  the  car  the  wife  is  in  and  not  go  fooling  down  the 
line.  D'ck  Hargis  hollers  "All  aboard"  like  a  fog  horn  when  his 
train  is  ready  to  move,  and  you  can  hear  hira  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  but 
Dick  can't  run  all  the  trains  and  so  ever  and  anon  some  poor  fellow 
like  me  is  bound  to  be  left. 

Farewell,  "SVaycross.  I  found  some  pleasant  friends  there  before  I 
left,  and  they  comforted  me,  especially  the  host  of  the  Grand  Central, 
who  was  an  old  Gwinnett  boy,  and  we  revived  many  recollections  of 
of  our  youthful  days.  But  still  when  I  think  of  Waycross,  il  is  with 
feelings  somewhat  like  those  Ave  have  when  we  visit  an  old-time  battle- 
field, where  we  fought,  bled  and  died  for  liberty. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  267 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


Pleasures  of  Hope  and  Memory. 

We  see  that  Dr.  Curry,  that  great  and  good  man,  is  writing  the 
reminiscences  of  his  youth.  How  lovingly  he  proceeds  with  his  work! 
How  gushingly  he  tells  of  his  old  school  days,  and  the  halos  and  rain- 
bows that  gilded  his  childhood!  How  reverently  he  writes  of  the 
grand  old  men  of  the  olden  time,  for  there  were  giants  in  those  days! 
How  feelingly  he  records  his  companionship  with  the  family  negroes 
— the  servants  of  the  household  who  were  contented  and  happy  and 
trusting,  and  who  loved  and  honored  every  member  of  their  master's 
family,  and  were  loved  by  them!  Oh,  the  tender  and  teary  recollec- 
tions of  'possum  hunts  and  coon  hunts  and  rabbit  hunts  and  corn 
shuckings,  and  eating  watermelons  in  the  cotton  patch  and  sometimes 
finding  them  while  pulling  fodder  in  the  hot  and  sultry  cornfield! 
What  frolics  in  going  to  mill  and  going  in  washing  and  jumping  from 
the  springboard  into  ten-foot  water!  What  glorious  sport  in  playing 
town-ball  and  bull-pen  and  cat  and  roily-hole  and  knucks  and  sweep- 
stakes. Base-ball  has  grown  out  of  town-ball;  it  is  no  improvement. 
The  pitcher  used  to  belong  to  the  ins  and  threw  the  best  ball  he  could, 
for  he  wanted  it  hit,  and  knocked  as  far  away  as  possible,  but  now  he 
belongs  to  the  outs  and  wants  it  missed.  We  used  to  throw  at  a  boy 
to  stop  him  running  to  another  base,  and  we  hit  him  if  we  could,  but 
these  modern  balls  are  hard  and  heavy  and  dangerous,  and  many  a 
boy  goes  home  with  a  bruised  face  or  a  broken  finger.  We  used  to 
take  an  old  rubber  shoe  and  cut  it  into  strings  and  wind  it  tight  into  a 
ball  until  it  was  half  grown,  and  then  finish  it  with  yarn  that  was  un- 
raveled from  an  old  woolen  sock.  Our  good  mothers  furnished  every- 
thing and  then  made  a  buckskin  cover  and  stitched  it  over  so  nice. 
Oh,  my,  how  those  balls  would  bounce,  and  yet  they  didn't  hurt  very 
bad  when  hit  by  them.  They  were  sweet  to  throw  and  sweet  to  catch. 
I  heard  lying  Tom  Turner  say  he  had  one  that  bounced   so  high  it 


268  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

never  came  down  till  next  day,  and  then  his  little  dog  grabbed  it,  and 
it  took  the  dog  up,  and  he  had  never  seen  the  dog  nor  the  ball  since. 
I  used  to  believe  that  but  I  don't  now.  When  we  played  town-ball 
some  of  the  outs  would  circle  away  o9  200  yards,  and  it  was  glorious 
to  see  them  catch  a  ball  that  had  nearly  reached  the  sky  as  it  grace- 
fully curved  from  the  stroke  of  the  bat.  We  had  an  hour  and  a  half 
for  recess,  and  most  of  it  was  spent  in  town-ball  or  bull-pen.  Bull- 
pen was  no  bad  game,  especially  when  the  ins  got  down  to  two  and 
the  juggling  began.  I  used  to  be  so  proud  because  I  could  stand  in 
the  middle  of  the  pen  and  defy  the  jugglers  to  hit  me  for  I  was 
slender  and  active  and  could  bend  in  or  bend  out  or  squat  down  or 
jump  up  and  dodge  every  ball  that  came,  but  I  couldn't  do  it  now, 
not  much  I  couldn't,  for  alas!  I  can  neither  squat  nor  jump  and  a 
boy  could  hit  my  corporosity  as  easy  as  a  barn  door.  Oh  these  mem- 
orys,  how  sweet  they  haunt  us. 

"  I  remember,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born ; 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn." 

Of  course  I  do — everybody  does.  The  other  night  there  were  ten 
of  our  school  board  in  session,  and  the  special  business  was  whether  to 
give  a  longer  recess  at  noon  or  not,  and  it  was  curious  to  hear  the 
various  opinions  on  the  subject.  Our  president  listened  patiently  to 
all  and  then  made  a  speech  for  himself,  and  said  that  the  children 
should  have  more  time  to  go  home  and  get  a  good  warm  dinner. 
"Cold  dinners,"  he  said,  "  are  unhealthy.  The  laws  of  hygiene  teach 
us  that  the  px'ocesses  of  digestion  are  much  more  easily  carried  on 
when  the  food  is  warm  and  fresh  from  the  oven.  More  than  half  of 
the  pupils  take  their  dinners  to  school  shut  up  in  tin  buckets  or 
wrapped  up  in  baskets,  and  they  get  cold  and  clammy,  and  are 
crammed  into  the  stomach  in  a  hurry,  and  the  children  go  to  playing 
before  digestion  begins,  and  of  course  the  stomach  rebels  and  won't  do  its 
work,  and  after  school  is  out  they  go  home  and  cram  in  a  lot  of  cake 
and  jelly  and  pickle  on  top  of  the  cold,  undigested  dinner,  and  the 
.first  thing  you  know  the  boy  or  the  girl  is  sick  and  has  to  stay  at  home 
a  day  or  tAvo  to  recuperate.  I  am  decidedly  in  favor  of  a  longer 
recess  and  warm  dinners." 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  26^ 

That  was  a  good  speech  and  a  sensible  argument,  but  it  hurt  my 
feelings  so  bad  that  I  rose  forward  and  in  trembling  accents  told  how 
I  went  to  school  three  miles  from  home  for  three  long  and  happy 
years,  and  carried  my  dinner  in  a  bucket,  and  how  I  enjoyed  those 
cold  dinners  that  my  good  mother  so  carefully  prepared  and  how  I 
had  often  tried  to  write  a  poem  to  that  little  tin  bucket — such  a  poem 
as  Wordsworth  wrote  about  * '  The  old  oaken  bucket  that  hung  in  the 
well."     My  poem  began  just  like  his,  but  always  ended  with, 

That  dear  little  bucket, 

That  hright,  shining  bucket, 

That  little  tin  bucket  I  carried  to  school. 

Oh  those  delightful  cold  dinners  that  were  so  nicely  arranged !  The 
tender  and  luscious  fried  chicken,  with  the  liver  and  gizzard  and  all; 
the  hard-boiled  eggs,  with  the  little  paper  of  pepper  and  salt  close  by; 
the  home-made  sausages,  linked  sausages,  that,  in  the  language  of 
Milton,  were  "linked  sweetness — long  drawn  out;"  the  little  bottle 
of  syrup  and  the  round,  hand-made  biscuit  that  were  beaten  from  the 
dough  and  had  no  soda  in  them — and  last  of  all,  the  good,  old- 
fashioned  ginger  cakes  and  the  turn-over  pies.  Ah,  those  rights  and 
lefts,  those  delicious  juicy  pies  that  were  made  of  peaches  that  my 
mother  dried. 

Just  then  there  was  a  racket  behind  me  and  Will  Howard  was  seen 
falling  over  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands  clasped  below  the  belt  and  his 
eyes  rolled  up  to  heaven.  He  gasped  piteously  as  he  whispered : 
"Hush,  Major,  hush,  for  heaven's  sake."  Martin  Collins  shouted, 
"  Glory !"  and  Judge  Milner  heaved  a  troubled  sigh  and  murmured, 
"Oh,  would  I  were  a  boy  again." 

For  fear  of  a  scene  I  suspended  my  broken  remarks,  and  our  wor- 
thy president  gracefully  subsided.  Major  Foute  wiped  his  eyes  with 
his  empty  sleeve  and  moved  for  an  adjournment,  and  so  the  recess 
hour  remains  unchanged. 

I  believe  it  is  best  for  children  to  walk  a  mile  or  two  to  school, 
especially  if  there  are  other  children  to  walk  with  them  a  part  of  the 
way.  Every  step  of  that  three-mile  way  is  dear  to  me  now,  and  I 
love  to  recall  the  boyish  frolics  as  morning  and  evening  we  meandered 
along,  playing  tag  or  mad  dog,  or  running  foot  races,  or  jumping 
half-hammond,  or  stopping  at  the  half-way  branch  to  wade  in  the 
-water,  or  dam  it  up,  or  catch  the  tadpoles,  or  drive  the  little  min- 


270  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

BLOWS  into  their  holes.  It  was  there  that  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a 
tadpole  turning  to  a  frog,  and  it  was  there  we  killed  a  water  mocca- 
sin, with  a  frog  in  his  throat,  and  saw  his  frogship  kick  out  backwards 
and  hop  away.  I  can  go  now  to  the  very  gully  that  had  a  vein  of  red 
chalk,  and  another  one  that  had  white.  I  know  every  persimmon 
tree  and  chestnut  and  hickory,  and  where  the  red  haws  were,  and  the 
black  haws  and  the  fruitful  walnut  that  we  climbed  in  its  season  and 
rattled  the  nuts  to  the  ground  and  stained  our  hands  and  clothes  in 
hulling  them.  All  such  things  are  around  me  now,  not  far  away,  but 
there  is  no  charm,  no  fond  memory  about  them,  for  they  were  not 
mine.  All  these  are  for  another  generation — another  set  of  boys  and 
girls.  By  and  by  they  will  be  looking  back  at  theirs  as  I  am  looking 
back  at  mine.  In  a  few  more  years  they  will  reverse  the  telescope. 
Until  I  was  past  thirty  I  looked  through  the  little  end  and  saw  life 
expanded  and  magnified  before  me,  while  the  distant  things  were 
brought  almost  within  reach,  and  I  was  nearing  the  goal  with  my  hope 
and  my  ambition,  but  alas!  I  havn't  reached  it,  and  by  degrees  hope 
weakened  and  ambition  became  chilled,  and  with  a  sad  humility  I 
began  to  look  backwards — I  reversed  the  telescope  and  saw  my  life 
away  back  in  the  distant  past.  The  picture  was  far — very  far  away, 
but  it  was  beautiful,  and  now  as  the  years  grow  short,  I  find  myself 
looking  through  the  large  end  almost  altogether.  The  memories  of 
the  past  grow  sweeter  as  the  years  roll  on.  The  capital  stock  of  the 
young  is  hope — but  the  treasure  of  age  is  memory. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  271 


CHAPTER  LV. 


Aep's  Reminiscences  of  Fifty  Years. 

A  sweet  little  girl  from  Marietta  writes  me  a  nice  letter  and  begs 
me  to  write  something  for  the  children — just  for  the  children. 

I  never  look  upon  a  flock  of  happy,  well -raised  children  without 
wondering  if  they  know  how  well  off  they  are — how  much  better  off 
than  their  grandparents  were  some  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago.  I  would 
like  to  see  old  Father  Time  set  his  clock  back  a  half  a  century  just  for 
a  week  and  put  everything  like  it  was  then,  and  I  would  walk  around 
and  have  lots  of  fun  out  of  those  little  folks.  I  don't  believe  they 
could  stand  it  a  whole  week,  but  it  would  do  them  good  to  try.  In 
the  first  place,  they  would  have  to  get  out  of  their  comfortable  houses 
with  plastered  walls  and  large  glass  windows  and  coal  gi-ates,  and  get 
into  smaller  houses  with  about  two  rooms  in  front  and  a  back  shed 
room,  that  had  no  fireplace  and  no  ceiling  and  a  window  with  a 
"wooden  shutter,  and  in  that  shed  room  they  would  have  to  sleep, 
and  the  wind  would  come  clipping  in  all  night  and  kiss  their  faces 
ever  so  nice.  They  would  have  to  take  off  all  their  pretty  clothes, 
and  wear  country  jeans  and  linsey,  and  they  would  have  to  go 
to  the  shoemakers  and  have  some  coarse,  rough  shoes  made  of  country 
leather  and  no  high  heels  nor  box  toes  nor  buttons.  But  they  would 
be  good  and  strong,  and  two  pairs  would  last  any  boy  or  girl  a  whole 
year — one  pair  would  do  them  if  they  greased  them  now  and  then  and 
went  barefooted  during  summer  as  we  used  to  do.  All  the  store 
stockings  would  have  to  be  dispensed  with,  and  the  elastic  too,  and 
they  would  put  on  some  good  warm  ones  that  were  knit  by  hand,  and 
be  tied  up  with  a  rag.  No  nice  hats  from  the  milliners,  with  pretty 
flowers  and  ribbons  gay  flying,  but  the  girls  would  have  to  put  on 
home-made  bonnets,  nicely  quilted,  and  the  boys  have  to  wear  home- 
made wool  hats  or  seal-skin  caps  that  would  last  two  or  tliree  years, 
and  stretch  bigger  as  the  heads  grew  bigger.    There  would  not  be  found 


272  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

a  store  in  the  whole  State  where  ready-made  clothing  could  be  found — 
not  a  coat  nor  a  pair  of  pants,  nor  a  shirt,  nor  a  skirt,  nor  a  doll,  nor 
hardly  a  toy  of  any  kind.  I  suppose  that  some  few  things  for  chil- 
dren might  be  found  in  Augusta,  or  Savannah,  or  Macon ;  but  the 
country  stores  wouldent  have  anything,  not  even  candy  or  oranges  or 
a  box  of  raisins.  A  boy  could  find  a  dog  knife  or  a  barlow,  and  be 
allowed  about  one  a  year,  but  the  little  girls  couldent  even  find  a 
thimble  small  enough  nor  a  pair  of  scissors.  Children  were  not  of 
much  consequence  then,  especially  girls. 

I  would  like  to  see  the  clock  set  back  for  one  week  and  see  the  boys 
cutting  wood  and  making  fires,  cutting  wood  half  the  day  Saturday 
for  Sunday,  and  Sunday  morning  sitting  down  to  learn  some  more  of 
the  shorter  catechism  about  justification,  and  sanctification,  and  adop- 
tion and  some  more  verses  in  the  Bible,  and  that  poetry  in  the  prim- 
mer  about — 

"  In  Adam's  fall 

We  sinned  all. 

The  cat  doth  play 

And  after  slay. 

Xerxes  must  die 

And  so  must  I. 

Zacheus,  he 

Did  climb  a  tree 

His  Lord  to  see." 

I  would  like  to  see  one  of  these  boys  wake  up  some  cold  morning 
and  when  he  tried  to  make  a  fire  and  stirred  around  among  the  ashes 
to  find  a  coal,  he  couldent  find  one,  and  what  then?  Not  a  match  in 
the  wide,  wide  world,  for  there  was  none  invented.  Wouldent  he  be 
in  a  fix!  Well,  he  would  have  to  run  over  to  the  nabors,  if  he  was  a 
town  boy,  and  borrow  a  chunk.  If  he  was  a  country  boy  he  would 
have  to  walk  a  mile  or  so,  maybe,  and  nearly  freeze  to  death  before 
he  got  back,  and  if  it  was  raining  his  chunk  would  be  apt  to  go  out 
on  the  way.  I  would  like  to  see  these  boys  and  girls  studying  their 
lessons  by  the  light  of  one  tallow  candle.  No  gas,  no  kerosene,  no 
oil  of  any  sort — only  one  flickering  light  of  a  candle,  or  maybe  only 
a  lightwood  blaze  in  the  fireplace.  I  reckon  they  would  study  hard 
and  study  fast  and  go  to  bed  soon  and  get  up  early  in  the  morning 
and  try  it  again.  I  would  like  to  see  them  sit  down  to  write  a  letter 
and  find  nothing  but  an  old  goose  quill  for  a  pen — not  a  steel  pen  in 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  273 

in  the  world.  I  would  watch  the  poor  fellow  as  he  tried  to  make  a 
pen  out  of  a  quill,  and  after  he  had  cut  it  to  a  point  see  him  try  to 
Eplit  it  in  the  middle  with  his  knife,  and  split  too  far  or  not  far 
enough,  or  on  one  side  and  then  throw  it  away  in  despair. 

It  would  all  be  fun  to  us  old  folks,  but  it  wouldent  be  fun  for  the 
boys  or  the  girls  to  be  set  back.  But  there  are  old  people  living  now 
who  do  the  same  old  things  and  live  the  same  old  way.  Colonel  Camp- 
bell Wallace  still  uses  the  quill  pens  and  makes  them  himself,  and  I 
wish  you  could  see  how  nicely  and  how  quickly  he  can  do  it.  Our 
school  teachers  had  to  make  the  pens  for  all  their  scholars,  and  it  took 
about  half  their  time,  for  they  had  to  mend  them  oftener  than  make 
them.  When  the  first  split  wore  out  he  had  to  split  it  again  and  trim 
it  down  to  a  new  point.  His  knife  was  always  open  and  ready. 
Poor  man!  He  died  before  the  steel  pens  were  invented  and  never 
got  the  good  of  them. 

But  we  were  used  to  these  ways  and  never  thought  hard  of  them. 
Judge  Lester  used  to  run  over  to  our  house  of  a  cold  morning  and  say 
to  my  mother:  "Please  mam,  lend  me  a  chunk  of  fire,"  and  I  used 
to  go  over  to  his  house  and  do  the  same  thing.  But  we  didn't  let  it 
go  out  often.  We  knew  how  to  cover  up  fire  in  the  ashes  so  as  to  keep 
it  till  morning.  I  remember  going  over  to  Forsyth  county  once 
when  an  old  Indian  lived  there  by  the  name  of  Sawnee.  He  didn't 
go  off  with  the  rest  of  the  Indians,  but  lived  on  a  mountain  called 
Sawnee's  mountain,  and  he  had  some  grandsons  about  our  age. 
George  Lester  and  Cicero  Strong  were  with  me,  and  we  gave  an 
Indian  boy  some  money  to  show  us  how  they  got  fire  when  their  fire 
went  out.  He  took  two  dry  hickory  sticks  about  a  foot  long  and  as 
large  as  my  thumb  and  a  little  bunch  of  dry  grass,  and  started  ofi  on 
a  run,  and  rubbed  the  sticks  together  so  rapidly  that  you  could  hardly 
see  them,  and  the  friction  made  fire  and  caught  the  grass,  and  he 
came  back  in  half  a  minute  with  a  blaze  in  his  hand.  I  used  to  go 
down  to  the  store  at  night  with  my  father,  and  he  had  a  tinder  box 
nailed  up  by  the  door  and  would  strike  the  steel  with  the  flint  and 
make  a  spark  and  let  it  fall  on  a  piece  of  punk  and  light  it,  and  then 
he  would  light  his  caudle  from  the  punk.  But  matches  came  along 
after  awhile  and  stopped  all  that.  I  remember  the  first  matches  that 
came  to  our  town.  They  were  called  Lucifer  matches  for  some  folks 
thought  that  the   "old  boy"  hud  something  to  do   with  them  and 


274  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

wouldent  use  them.  Tliey  smelled  strong  of  brimstone  and  were  sold 
at  twenty-five  cents  a  box.  ISTow  ten  times  as  many  sell  for  a  nickle. 
But  about  lights.  Dipping  the  candles  was  one  of  the  notable  events 
of  the  year.  It  was  almost  as  big  a  thing  as  hog  killing.  The  boys 
prepared  the  canes  or  reeds,  about  sixty  in  number,  as  large  as  the 
little  finger  and  nearly  a  yard  long.  They  were  smoothed  at  the 
joints  and  put  away  in  a  bundle  to  dry.  "VMien  the  time  come,  the 
first  cold  weather  in  the  fall,  our  mother  would  get  out  the  candle 
wick  and  wind  it  around  a  pair  of  cotton  cards,  end  ways,  and  after 
a  good  deal  was  wound  would  cut  one  end  with  the  scissors  and  that 
made  the  wicks  when  doubled  just  long  enough  for  a  candle.  Three 
or  four  canes  were  then  interlaced  through  the  back  of  an  old-fash- 
ioned chair  to  keep  them  steady  while  she  looped  the  wicks  around 
them  and  twisted  their  ends  together.  Seven  wicks  were  put  on  each 
cane  and  when  the  cane  was  taken  out  and  held  horizontal  the  wicks 
hung  down  and  were  about  two  inches  apart.  When  all  the  canes 
were  full  they  were  laid  upon  a  table  ready  for  dipping.  The  tallow 
was  melted  in  a  big  wash  pot.  Some  beeswax  was  added  and  a  little 
alum.  Old  plank  were  placed  on  the  floor  where  the  dipping  and 
dripping  was  to  be.  Two  long  poles  or  quilting  frames  were  placed 
parallel  on  the  backs  of  chairs  and  were  wide  enough  apart  to  let  the 
candles  between  and  hold  up  the  canes.  The  big  pot  had  to  be  kept 
nearly  fuU  all  the  time.  A  cane  of  wicks  was  let  down  slowly  in  the 
pot,  until  the  cane  rested  on  its  edges.  Then  it  was  lifted  up  and 
allowed  to  drip  awhile  and  then  placed  as  number  one  between  the 
long  poles  where,  if  it  dripped  any  more  it  was  on  the  old  plank.  The 
first  course  was  long  and  tedious,  for  it  took  the  loose  cotton  wick 
some  time  to  absorbe  the  tallow.  After  that  the  process  was  rapid. 
Tallow  would  harden  on  tallow  quickly,  and  at  every  dipping  the  lit- 
tle candles  got  larger  until  after  awhile  they  were  large  enough  at  the 
bottom  ends  to  fill  a  caudlestick,  and  that  ended  the  job.  They  were 
left  on  the  poles  over  night  and  then  slipped  ofi"  the  rods  and  placed 
in  the  candlebox  or  an  old  trunk. 

Seven  times  sixty  made  420  candles,  and  that  was  the  year's  sup- 
ply. Only  one  candle  was  usual  for  the  table  in  the  family  room. 
The  reading  and  sewing  was  all  done  by  that.  The  boys  were  allowed 
a  piece  of  one  to  go  to  bed  by.  Nobody  sat  up  until  midnight  then. 
The  night  was  believed  to  be  created  for  sleep  and  rest,  and  the  day 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE.  275 

for  work.  There  were  no  theaters  nor  skating  rinks — no  reading  nov- 
els half  the  night  and  lying  in  bed  until  breakfast  next  morning. 
The  rule  was  to  go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  and  get  up  with  the  chick- 
ens. But  now  we  couldn't  read  by  candle  light.  It  takes  at  least 
two  lamps,  and  one  lamp  is  equal  to  ten  candles.  But  we  got  along 
pretty  well.  All  the  substantial  things  were  as  good  as  they  are 
now.  Good  water,  good  air,  good  sunshine  and  shower,  good  health, 
good  warm  clothes,  good  bread  and  meat  and  milk  and  butter,  good 
peaches  and  apples,  good  horses  to  ride,  good  fishing  and  swimming 
and  hunting.  We  dident  have  railroads  and  telegraphs  and  tele- 
phones and  sewing  machines,  and  so  forth,  but  we  didn't  need  them. 
We  need  them  now,  for  the  world  is  so  full  of  people  that  the  old 
ways  wouldent  feed  and  clothe  them.  The  right  thing  always  comes 
along  at  the  right  time.  If  the  clock  was  set  back  I  wonder  how  this 
generation  would  manage  about  the  cooking  business.  Fifty  years 
ago  there  were  no  cooking-stoves.  The  ovens  and  skillets  and  spiders 
were  big  heavy  things  that  had  to  be  lifted  on  and  off  the  fire  with  a 
pair  of  pot-hooks.  They  had  heavy  lids,  and  the  cooking  was  done 
by  putting  coals  underneath  and  coals  on  top.  It  took  bark  and  chips 
to  make  coals  quickly,  and  our  old  cook  used  to  say,  * '  Now  git  me 
some  bark,  little  master,  and  I  gib  you  a  bikket  when  he  done." 
There  was  no  soda,  or  tartaric  acid,  or  baking  powder.  The  biscuit 
were  made  by  main  strength.  The  dough  was  kneaded  by  strong 
arms,  and  sometimes  it  was  beaten  with  the  rolling  pin  until  it  blis- 
tered. When  the  dough  blistered  it  w'as  good  and  made  good  bis- 
cuit. I  can't  say  that  we  have  any  better  cooking  now  than  we  had 
then ;  but  the  stove  makes  it  a  great  deal  easier  to  cook. 

The  boys  had  no  baseball,  but  they  had  bullpen  and  cat  and  town- 
ball  and  roley  hole  and  tag  and  sweepstakes  and  pull  over  the  mark 
and  foot  races  and  so  forth,  and  they  thought  there  was  nothing  bet- 
ter. They  had  the  best  rubber  balls  in  the  world,  and  made  them 
themselves.  Some  of  them  could  bounce  thirty  feet  high.  They 
were  made  by  cutting  an  old  rubber  shoe  into  strings  and  winding  the 
strings  into  a  ball  and  covering  it  with  buckskin.  But  after  awhile 
the  rubber  shoes  were  not  made  of  all  rubber.  They  were  mixed  with 
something  that  took  some  of  the  bounce  out,  and  our  balls  degener- 
ated. There  was  an  old  man  living  near  us  who  was  called  "Lying 
Tom  Turner,"  and  he  told  us  boys  one  day  that  when  he  was  a  boy 


276  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

he  had  a  rubber  ball  that  he  was  afraid  to  bounce  hard  for  fear  it 
would  go  up  out  of  sight  and  he  would  lose  it.  We  asked  him  what 
became  of  his  ball,  and  he  said  he  bounced  it  one  day  most  too  hard 
and  it  went  up  into  the  clouds  and  was  gone  half  an  hour,  and  when 
it  came  down  his  little  dog  grabbed  it  in  his  mouth,  and  it  rebounced 
and  carried  the  dog  up  with  it  out  of  sight,  and  he  had  never  seen  the 
ball  nor  the  little  dog  siuce. 

Well,  I  don't  know  which  times  are  the  best — the  old  times  or  the 
new.  It  is  very  nice  to  have  a  nice  house  and  nice  furniture  and  nice 
clothes  and  lots  of  nice  story  books  and  to  ride  on  the  cars,  but  in  the 
old  times  people  didn't  hanker  after  such  things,  and  they  were  easy 
to  please,  and  were  in  no  hurry  to  get  through  life,  and  there  were  no 
suicides,  and  very  few  crazy  folks,  and  no  pistols  to  carry  in  the  hip- 
pockets.  Nowadays  there  is  a  skeleton  in  most  every  house.  I  don't 
mean  a  real  skeleton,  but  some  great  big  trouble  that  throws  a  dark 
shadow  over  the  family.  There  were  not  any  exciting  books  to  read — 
no  sensation  novels  that  poison  the  mind,  just  like  bad  food  poisons 
the  body.  There  were  but  half  a  dozen  newspapers  in  the  whole 
State,  and  they  didn't  have  Avhole  columns  full  of  murders  and  sui- 
cides and  robberies  and  awful  fires  that  burned  up  poor  lunatics  and 
all  other  horrid  things  to  make  a  tender  heart  feel  bad.  There  was 
nobody  very  rich  and  nobody  very  poor,  and  we  had  as  great  men 
then  as  we  have  now. 

If  the  clock  was  set  back,  and  the  little  girl  who  wrote  to  me 
wanted  to  go  to  Augusta  with  her  grandpa  to  visit  her  kinfolks,  she 
would  have  to  get  in  the  mail  coach  and  jog  along  all  day  and  all 
night  at  four  miles  an  hour  and  pay  ten  cents  a  mile,  and  it  would 
take  two  days  and  nights,  and  she  would  be  tired  almost  to  death  and 
60  would  her  grandpa.  "Well,  they  just  couldn't  go.  But  now  they 
can  go  as  cheap  as  to  stay  at  home,  and  do  it  in  less  time,  as  the  Irish- 
man said. 

But  the  clock  will  not  be  set  back,  and  so  we  must  all  be  content 
with  things  as  they  are,  and  make  them  better  if  we  can. 


The  Fakm  and  The  FmEsmE.  27T 


CHAPTER  LVI. 


William  and  His  Wife  Visit  the  City. 

The  old  carpet  in  the  family  room  has  been  down  and  up  and  up 
and  down  for  seventeen  years.  It  has  been  the  best  carpet  we  ever 
had.  It  used  to  be  the  parlor  carpet,  but  was  reduced  to  a  lower  rank 
a  long  time  ago.  Time  and  children  and  dogs  and  cats  and  brooms 
have  worked  on  it  until  it  is  faded  and  slick  and  threadbare.  The 
colors  are  gone  and  so  are  the  figures  and  the  fn.z  and  the  nap,  but  it 
is  a  carpet  still.  It  has  been  taken  up  and  hung  on  the  fence  and 
beaten  with  thrash  poles  about  seventeen  times,  and  yet  there  is  not  a 
hole  in  it.  In  its  aristocratic  days  it  bore  the  burden  of  aristocratic 
shoes  and  fancy  slippers,  and  music  and  song  and  love  making,  and 
the  parlor  dance,  and  the  family  weddings.  Its  downy  flowers  treas- 
ured many  a  secret  and  many  a  joy.  But  in  course  of  time  it  ceased 
to  be  the  pride  of  the  family,  and  became  its  servant.  We  have 
raised  children  on  that  carpet — rough  boys  and  romping  girls.  We 
have  raised  dogs  and  cats.  It  has  been  the  mudsills  of  a  nursery  and 
a  menagerie  and  a  schoolroom  and  a  circus.  As  its  colors  disappeared 
in  the  middle  and  around  the  hearthstone  Mrs.  Arp  would  take  it  up' 
and  change  corners  and  bring  to  the  front  a  brighter  portion  that  lay 
hidden  under  the  bed  aud  the  bureau  and  the  sofa.  She  has  done 
this  so  often  that  there  is  little  difference  now.  Every  part  has  trav- 
eled the  grand  rounds  over  and  over  again. 

Mrs.  Arp  has  been  hinting  about  a  new  carpet  for  some  time. 
"We  could  do  without  it  if  I  couldn't  afford  it,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
must  have  a  talma  cloak  anyhow,  and  the  children  needed  so  many 
things,  but  she  didn't  want  anything  for  herself."  Of  course  she 
didn't.  I  didn't  give  her  a  chance.  I  keep  her  supplied.  I  nevei- 
said  anything — I  just  looked  into  the  fire  and  ruminated.  She  knows 
my  weakness.  It's  all  honey  aud  sugar  aud  a  little  flattery  thrown 
in.     When  it  comes  to  driving  and  bulldozing  I  am  an  austere  man,, 


"278  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

I  am,  and  she  knows  it.  She  said  last  week  that  she  had  promised 
Ralph  to  go  down  to  Atlanta  and  see  him,  and  while  there  she  could 
get  a  cloak  and  some  little  things  for  the  children  for  Christmas, 
"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  I.  "I  wish  to  see  Ralph,  too,  and  keep  him 
encouraged.  I  think  he  will  make  a  pretty  good  doctor  in  ten  or 
fifteen  years,  if  he  keeps  on  studying  and  cutting  up  stiffs  and  holding 
the  candle  for  Dr.  Westmoreland.  He  uses  powerful  big  words  now 
for  a  boy  of  his  size.  He  talks  about  anesthetics  and  antiskeptics,  and 
the  like."  It  wasn't  much  trouble  to  get  her  off",  and  she  never  said 
nary  time  that  she  had  nothing  to  wear.  She  has  got  past  that  at  last. 
We  took  one  of  the  girls  along  as  a  chaperone,  for  my  wife  and  I 
haven't  kept  up  with  city  style  and  street  behavior  and  how  to  shop 
and  look  at  fine  things  like  we  were  used  to  them. .  We  had  hardly 
got  off  the  cars  when  she  met  an  old  friend  and  hugged  aud  kissed  her, 
and  they  got  to  talking  about  old  times  and  somebody  that  was  dead, 
and  my  wife  she  got  full  in  the  throat  and  watery  in  the  eyes,  and 
they  blocked  up  the  sidewalk  and  everybody  had  to  walk  around 
them,  and  so  to  prevent  a  scene  our  chaperone  dissolved  the  interview 
and  we  hurried  on  to  Whitehall.  It  has  been  built  up  wonderfully 
since  Mrs.  Arp  was  there,  and  the  show  windows  are  just  beautiful 
beyond  description.  She  stopped  squarely  before  the  first  jewelry 
store  and  feasted  her  hazel  eyes  in  rapturous  amazement.  "Did  you 
ever  in  your  life?  Isen't  that  perfectly  lovely?  Do  look  at  that  lit- 
tle cherub  swinging  to  that  clock  for  a  pendulum.  I  wonder  if  those 
are  real  diamonds  in  those  brooches.  Oh  my!  see  that  beautiful 
breastpin.  Wouldent  Jessie  love  to  wear  that.  Poor  thing,  she  has 
never  had  a  nice  pin."  The  chaperone  began  to  take  on  a  little,  too,  and 
the  passsing  crowd  had  to  go  round  us  again,  aud  some  of  them  looked 
back  and  smiled,  and  that  made  me  mad,  and  so  I  took  my  women 
folks  away  from  there  and  remarked:  "I  wouldn't  stop  to  look  at 
everything.  People  will  think  you  never  saw  anything  pretty  or  fine 
in  your  life."  Mrs.  Arp  prouded  up  her  head  and  said:  "What  do 
I  care  for  people.  The  merchants  put  their  finest  things  in  the  win- 
dows to  be  looked  at,"and  I  am  going  to  look  just  as  much  as  I  please,'' 
and  she  stopped  squarely  against  another  window  and  began  the  inspec- 
tion of  those  lovely  ladies'  shoes.  Mrs.  Arp  goes  perfectly  daft  on  fine 
shoes — No.  2s.  Daft  is  the  word  she  uses  on  me  sometimes,  but  I  don't 
know  what  it  means.     She  says  I  promised  her  thirteen  pair  a  year 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  279 

before  she  married  me.  One  pair  a  month  and  one  pair  over.  Maybe 
I  did,  but  I've  forgotten  all  those  things.  They  were  not  said  in  a 
lucid  interval.  "Now  buy  your  shoes,"  said  I,  "and  let  us  move  on 
to  the  carpet  store;  it  will  be  dinner  time  directly."  She  looked  at 
me  in  sweet  surprise  and  followed  me  like  a  lamb,  for  I  hadent  men- 
tioned the  carpet  before.  We  went  to  the  carpet  store,  and  there 
were  so  many  beautiful  patterns  that  she  couldent  decide  on  any.  The 
carpet  men  unrolled  piece  after  piece,  and  sent  the  rolls  whirling  away 
down  the  room  and  then  back  again,  and  they  kept  getting  lovelier 
and  lovelier,  and  the  price  higher  and  higher,  until  my  wife  sighed, 
and  said:  "Well,  let  us  go  now;  we  will  come  back  again  after 
awhile."  I  followed  them  around  meekly,  and,  as  we  passed  a  French 
clock,  I  pointed  to  the  hour,  and  it  was  2  o'clock  p.  m.  "Only  an 
hour  and  a  half  longer  to  stay,"  said  I,  "and  we  have  had  no  dinner." 
They  didn't  seem  to  be  worried  about  the  dinner,  and  made  a  final 
assault  upon  another  carpet  store,  and  I  had  to  settle  it  at  last  and 
make  a  choice  for  them.  I  always  do.  I  used  to  be  a  merchant,  and 
kept  the  finest  and  prettiest  goods  in  town.  I  used  to  sell  Mrs.  Arp- 
fine  dressing  when  she  was  a  miss,  and  she  wouldn't  trade  anywhere 
else,  and  it  took  her  a  long  time  to  make  up  her  niind,  and  I  had  to 
make  it  up  for  her  just  as  I  do  now.  She  never  traded  much  at  any 
other  store,  and,  to  my  opinion,  there  is  about  as  much  courting  done 
over  the  counter  by  day  as  in  the  parlor  by  night.  After  we  were 
married  she  traded  with  me  altogether.  Thirty-six  yards  of  carpeting^ 
was  all  that  I  had  bargained  for  when  I  left  home,  but  there  was  a 
rug  and  a  hassock  and  two  pairs  of  shoes  and  some  sylabub  stuff  for 
ruffles  and  flounces  and  a  few  Christmas  things,  and  by  the  time  we 
got  to  Durand's  we  had  only  twenty  minutes  for  dinner.  We  were  all 
happy  and  hungry,  too,  and  the  dinner  was  splendid,  and  my  wife 
brought  home  a  basket  of  fruit  for  the  children,  and  she  told  them  all 
about  the  big  day's  work,  and  the  beautiful  things,  and  whom  she  saw, 
and  I  reckon  it  was  worth  the  money  that  was  spent  and  more  too. 
The  carpet  came  along  in  due  time  all  ready  made,  and  three  of  the 
children  were  at  school,  and  dident  know  it,  and  we  hurried  up  and 
took  everything  out  of  the  room  and  bid  farewell  to  the  old  one,  and 
cleaned  up  the  straw  and  the  dust,  and  washed  up  the  floor  and  the 
windows,  and  put  down  the  paper,  and  the  carpet  on  top  of  it, 
and  pulled,  and  stretched,  and  tugged  and  tacked  until  it  was  all 


"280  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

right.  Then  we  put  the  furniture  all  back  just  like  it  was,  and  sat 
down  before  the  fire  just  like  nothing  had  happened,  and  in  about  ten 
minutes  the  school  chaps  came  singing  up  to  the  back  door  and  walked 
in  upon  us  before  they  had  time  to  look  down,  and  it  was  worth  $5 
more  to  hear  the  raptures  and  adjectives  and  adverbs  and  exclama- 
tion points  and  other  parts  of  speech  that  they  indulged  in  when  their 
wondering  eyes  feasted  upon  the  rich  brown  colors  under  their  feet.  If 
I  was  rich  I  would  buy  another  carpet  right  away  just  to  have  another 
good  time  with  Mrs.  Arp  and  the  children. 

But  we  didn't  have  the  pleasure  of  Ralph's  company  at  last.  I 
found  him  at  Dr.  Westmoreland's  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  helping 
the  doctor  to  mend  a  man's  broken  arm.  They  had  a  little  tub  half 
full  of  plaster  paris  in  solution,  and  a  lot  of  bandage  rolls  in  it,  get- 
ting saturated.  They  set  the  bones  and  kept  the  arm  pulled  straight, 
while  the  bandages  were  wrapped  from  wrist  to  elbow,  and  elbow  to 
wrist,  and  wrapped  again  and  again,  and  the  plaster  hardened  as  fast 
as  it  was  rolled  on,  and  in  a  few  minutes  it  was  hard  as  chalk  and 
nearly  half  an  inch  thick,  and  the  man's  arm  was  in  a  vice.  He  was 
was  soon  dismissed,  and  the  doctor  said  "next."  Then  there  was  a 
man  whose  hand  was  crushed  between  the  cars,  and  another  who  had 
an  awful  splinter  thrust  into  his  stomach,  and  a  child  with  a  grain  of 
coffee  in  her  lungs,  and  her  throat  had  to  be  cut  open.  It  is  cutting 
and  mending  and  sewing  up  human  flesh  and  bones  all  the  day  long, 
and  blood  is  as  common  as  water.  There  is  no  time  for  sympathy  or 
tender  words.  It  is  business — hard,  stern  business,  and  the  signal 
word  is  "next."  May  the  Lord  keep  us  all  and  preserve  us  from  such 
calamities. 


The  Farm:  and  Tile  Fireside.  281 


CHAPTER  LVII. 


The  Buzzard  Lope. 

I'm  going  to  quit  thinking  about  the  race  problem,  and  the  tariff, 
and  Speaker  Reed,  and  John  Wanamaker,  and  everything  else  of  a 
turbulent  and  transitory  nature.  I'm  going  to  boycott  everything 
now  except  domestic  affairs.  I'm  going  to  attend  to  my  own 
business.  I'm  going  to  stay  at  home  and  work,  and  if  I  read  a  paper 
at  all  it  will  be  with  one  eye  on  the  head  lines  and  nothing  else. 

They  say  that  exercise  is  a  remedy  for  trouble — trouble  of  mind  or 
trouble  of  body.  Get  up  and  move  around  lively.  My  old  father 
was  afflicted  with  rheumatism,  and  when  the  sharp  pains  began  to 
worry  him  he  would  take  his  long  stick  and  start  out  over  the  farm 
and  limp,  and  grunt,  and  drag  himself  along  until  he  got  warmed  up, 
and  in  an  hour  or  so  would  come  back  feeling  better.  A  man  can 
mope  and  brood  over  his  troubles  until,  as  Cobe  says,  "they  get  more 
thicker  and  more  aggrevatiner."  He  told  me  that  he  had  tried  liver 
medicine  and  corn  juice  and  various  "anecdotes"  for  disease,  but  that 
a  right  good  sweat  of  perspiration  was  the  best  thing  for  a  man  or  a 
beast.  He  used  to  cure  mules  of  the  colic  by  trotting  them  around 
until  the  sweat  come. 

I  haven't  got  the  colic  nor  the  rheumatism,  but  I  feel  such  a  con- 
stant uxorial  goneness  that  I  have  to  step  around  lively  to  forget 
myself.  I  feel  just  like  I  had  lost  my  tobacco.  The  sparrows  are 
regailing  on  my  strawberries.  The  happy  mocking  birds  are  singing 
their  tee  diddle  and  too  doodle,  and  the  lordly  peacock  screams  and 
struts  and  spreads  his  magnificent  tail,  and  all  nature  seems  gay  and 
joyous,  but  how  can  the  lord  of  creation  sing  a  glad  song  when  his 
lady  is  far  away  in  a  strange  land.  A  letter  from  there  says: 
"Mamma  is  having  a  good  time  and  behaving  so  nice  to  everybody." 
Of  course,  of  course.  And  I'm  nice  to  everybody  here — especially 
the  ladies.  Some  of  them  come  every  day — come  to  comfort  me,  they 
say.     I'm  having  a  pretty  good  time  considering.     We  had  some  fine 


282  The  Faksi  and  The  FiREsroE. 

music  last  night — some  of  the  boys  came  home  with  Carl  to  practice 
for  a  serenade  to  the  spring  chickens.  They  had  a  guitar  and  some 
harps  and  a  triangle,  and  were  right  good  singers  besides,  and  I  enjoyed 
it  immensely.  Jessie  is  a  musician,  too,  and  when  she  struck  the 
ivory  key  with  some  saltatory  notes  like,  "Oh  Jinny  is  your  Ash-cake 
Done,"  and  "The  Highland  Fling"  and  "Run  Nigger  Run,"  accom- 
panied by  the  sweet  harmonicas  and  the  guitar,  I  just  couldent  keep 
my  old  extremities  subdued,  and  they  got  me  up  and  toted  me  around 
on  light  fantastic  toes  amazing.  I  was  all  by  myself  in  the  next 
room,  but  I  had  lots  of  fun.  It  does  a  man  good  sometimes  to  unbend 
himself  and  forget  his  antiquity.  I  like  a  little  hornpipe  or  a  pigeon 
wing  on  the  sly  sometimes.  It  may  be  original  sin,  or  it  may  be  that 
there  is  a  time  to  dance,  as  Solomon  says,  but  I  like  it.  My  beard  is 
growing  gray,  and  there's  not  many  hairs  between  my  head  and  the 
cerulean  heavens,  but  I'm  obliged  to  have  some  recreation,  especially 
when  Mrs.  Arp  is  away.  You  ought  to  see  me  caper  around  to  the 
music  with  a  little  grand-child,  a  threfi-year-old  who  chooses  me  for  a 
partner  whenever  the  music  begins.  She  knows  the  dancing  tunes  as 
well  as  I  do,  bless  her  little  heart.  My  boys  have  got  a  new  step  now 
that  they  call  the  "buzzard  lope,"  that  is  grand,  lively  and  peculiar. 
The  story  goes  that  an  old  darkey  lost  his  aged  mule,  and  found  him 
one  Sunday  evening  lying  dead  in  the  woods  and  forty-nine  buzzards 
feasting  upon  his  carcass.  Forty-eight  of  them  flew  away,  but  the 
forty-ninth,  whose  feathers  were  gray  with  age,  declined  to  retire. 
Looking  straight  at  the  darkey,  he  spread  his  wings  about  half-and- 
half,  like  the  American  eagle  on  a  silver  dollar,  and  tucked  his  tail 
under  his  body  and  drew  in  his  chin  and  pulled  down  his  vast  and 
began  to  lope  around  the  dead  mule  in  a  saltatory  manner.  He  was 
a  greedy  bird  and  liked  his  meat  served  rare,  and  rejoiced  that  he  now 
had  the  carcass  all  to  himself,  and  so  he  loped  around  with  alacrity. 
The  old  darkey  was  a  fiddler  and  dancer  by  instinct  and  inspiration. 
He  had  danced  all  the  dances  and  pranced  all  the  prances  of  his 
naborhood  for  half  a  century.  He  had  played  prompter  for  the 
white  folks  at  a  thousand  frolics,  and  knew  every  step  and  turn  and 
fling  of  the  heel-tap  and  the  toe,  but  he  had  never  seen  such  a  peculiar 
double  demi-semi-quiver  shufile  as  that  old  buzzard  loped  arouud  that 
mule.  He  stood  aghast.  He  spread  his  arms  just  half-and-half,  and 
bent  his  back  in  the  middle,  unlimbered  his  ankle  joints,  stiffened  his 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  283 

elbows,  and  forgetting  both  tlie  day  and  the  phico,  he  followed  that 
bird  around  that  mule  for  four  solid  hours  and  caught  the  exquisite 
lope  exactly.  At  dusk  the  tired  buzzard  souzed  his  beak  into  one  of 
dead  mule's  eyes  and  bore  it  away  to  his  roost,  while  the  old  darkey 
loped  all  the  way  home  to  his  cabin  door,  feeling  ten  years  younger 
for  his  masterpiece.  The  buzzard  lope  suits  an  old  man  splendid,  for 
it  is  best  performed  with  rheumatism  in  one  leg  and  St.  Vitus  dance 
in  the  other,  and  it  is  said  to  be  a  sovereign  remedy  for  both. 

Some  folks  don't  care  much  about  music — some  don't  care  anything 
about  dancing,  but  some  folks  like  both  because  it  is  their  nature  and 
they  can't  help  it.  It  is  just  as  natural  for  children  to  love  to  dance 
to  the  harmony  of  sweet  sounds  as  it  is  for  them  to  love  to  play  mar- 
bles or  jump  the  rope,  or  any  other  innocent  sport.  The  church 
allows  its  members  to  pat  the  foot  to  music,  but  condemns  dancing 
because  it  leads  to  dissipation  and  bad  company;  but  we  shouldn't  let 
it  lead  the  young  folks  that  way.  The  church  condemns  minstrel 
shows  and  minstrel  songs,  but  has  lately  stolen  from  them  some  ot 
their  sweetest  tunes,  and  set  them  to  sacred  verse,  and  is  all  the  better 
for  it.  Who  does  not  appreciate  the  * '  Lilly  of  the  Valley"  that  is  now 
sung  to  the  "Cabin  in  the  Lane?"  Puritanism,  and  penance,  and 
long  faces,  and  assumed  distress  are  passing  away.  The  Methodist 
discipline  that  forbade  jewelry,  and  ornaments,  and  fine  dressing  has 
become  obsolete,  for  it  was  against  nature.  What  our  creator  has 
given  us  to  enjoy,  let  us  enjoy  in  reason  and  in  season  and  be  all  the 
more  thankful  for  His  goodness. 

I  believe  in  music.  Joseph  Henry  Lumpkin,  our  great  chief  jus- 
tice, said  there  was  music  in  all  things  except  the  braying  of  an  ass 
or  the  tongue  of  a  scold.  I  believe  in  the  refining  influences  of  music 
over  the  young,  and  if  an  occasional  dance  at  home  or  in  the  parlor 
of  a  friend  will  make  the  young  folks  happy,  let  them  be  happy.  I 
read  Dr.  Calhoun's  beautiful  lecture  that  he  delivered  before  the 
Atlanta  Medical  college  —a  lecture  on  the  human  throat  as  a  musical 
instrument — and  I  was  charmed  with  its  science,  its  instruction,  and 
its  literary  beauty.  I  read  part  of  it  to  those  boys  who  were  practic- 
ing for  the  serenade — about  the  wonders  of  the  human  larynx,  that  in 
ordinary  singers  could  produce  120  different  sounds,  and  fine  singers 
like  Jenny  Liud  could  produce  a  thousand,  and  IMadam  Mora,  whose 
voice  compassed  three  octaves,  could  produce  2,100  different  notes; 


284  The  Farm  and  The  FiREsmE. 

aud  about  Farinelli,  who  cured  Phillip  V.,  king  of  Spain,  of  a  dread- 
ful malady  by  singing  to  him,  and  after  he  was  fully  restored  he  waa 
afraid  of  a  relapse  and  hired  Farinelli  to  sing  to  him  every  night  at  a 
salary  of  fifty  thousand  francs,  and  he  sang  to  him  as  David  harped 
for  Saul.  Music  fills  up  so  many  gaps  in  the  family.  The  young 
people  can't  work  and  read  and  study  all  the  time.  They  must  have 
recreation,  and  it  is  better  to  have  it  at  home  than  hunt  for  it  else- 
where. If  the  old  folks  mope  and  grunt  and  complain  around  the 
house,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  children  try  to  get  away.  And  they 
will  get  away  if  they  have  to  marry  to  do  it.  I  have  known  girls  to 
marry  very  trifling  lovers  because  they  were  tired  of  home.  This 
reminds  me  of  a  poor  fellow  who  was  hard  pressed  by  a  creditor  to 
whom  he  owed  forty  dollars.  He  came  to  employ  us  to  get  a  home- 
stead for  him  so  as  to  save  his  little  farm.  "Are  you  a  married 
man?"  said  I.  "No,  I  aint,"  said  he.  "Well,  you  will  have  to  get 
married  before  you  can  take  a  homestead.  Is  there  no  clever  girl  in 
your  naborhood  whom  you  have  a  liking  for  ?"  He  looked  straight  in 
the  fire  for  a  minute  or  more,  and  then  rose  up  and  shook  his  long, 
sandy  hair,  and  said :  "Gentlemen,  the  jig  are  up.  I'll  have  to 
shindig  around  and  get  that  money,  for  I'll  be  dogond  if  I'll  get  mar- 
ried for  forty  dollars.     Good  mornin'." 

"We  are  working  hard,  now,  renovating  and  repairing  the  home 
inside  and  outside.  We  have  whitewashed  the  fence  all  round,  and 
the  barn  and  coal-house,  and  chicken  house,  and  all.  We  have  paint- 
the  gates  a  lovely  red,  and  striped  the  greenhouse,  and  Carl  wanted  to 
stripe  the  calf  with  the  same  color,  as  a  meandering  ornament  to  the 
lawn,  but  he  couldn't  catch  him.  I  have  planted  out  Madeira  vines 
and  Virginia  creepers  and  tomato  plants,  and  we  have  declared  war 
against  the  English  sparrows  that  destroy  more  strawberries  than  we 
get.  We  will  have  things  fixed  up  when  the  maternal  comes  home. 
I  reckon  she  will  come  sometime — come  home  spoiled  like  I  do  as 
when  I  take  a  trip  ofi^  and  am  petted  up  by  genial  friends.  It  will 
take  us  a  week  to  get  her  back  in  the  harness,  but  it  won't  take  her 
half  that  long  to  get  us  back.  We've  got  two  picnics  on  hand,  and  a 
fishing  frolic,  and  there  are  five  pretty  girls  from  Cement  coming  here 
tonight,  and  on  the  whole  I  don't  think  I  am  as  lonesome  as  I  think 
I  am. 

"So  here's  a  health  to  her  who's  away." 


The  Farm  and  Tub  Fireside.  285 


CHATPER  LVIII. 


Up  Among  The  Stars. 

I  was  talking  to  the  children  the  other  night  about  astronomy,  and  I 
said:  "I  am  a  traveler — a  great  traveler.  I  have  traveled  forty 
thousand  million  of  miles  in  my  life.  I  was  born  traveling.  I  can 
beat  railroads  and  telegraphs.  When  I  travel  I  make  68,000  miles  an 
hour,  and  don't  exert  myself  a  bit.  I  can  make  over  1,500,000  miles 
in  a  day,  and  turn  a  summerset  8,000  miles  high  in  the  bargain — 
I  turn  one  every  day  when  I  am  on  the  road.  I  traveled  nearly  600,- 
000,000  miles  last  year." 

And  so  I  made  the  children  figure  it  all  up  so  as  to  impress  upon 
them  the  immensity  of  space  and  the  mighty  power  of  God.  I  know 
an  old  man — a  lawyer — who  didn't  believe  in  any  of  these  things. 
He  said  it  was  not  according  to  scripture.  He  didn't  believe  the  earth 
was  round  or  that  it  turned  over.  He  said  the  scriptures  spoke  of  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  and  that  Joshua 
commanded  the  sun  to  stand  stiU  just  like  he  did  the  moon,  and  they 
both  stood  still.  We  used  to  argue  with  him,  and  tell  him  that  nav- 
igators had  sailed  all  around  the  earth,  but  it  was  no  use,  and  we  gave 
him  up. 

I  know  lots  of  sensible  people  who  don't  believe  that  astronomers 
know  anything  about  these  immense  distances  and  orbits  and  weights 
of  the  planets.  They  say  it  is  all  guess  work,  pretty  much,  and  that 
it  is  impossible  to  tell  how  far  it  is  from  one  place  to  another,  or  one 
planet  to  another  without  measuring  it  with  a  chain  or  a  rod-pole  or 
a  string  or  something.  And  here  is  where  a  higher  education  comes 
in  and  broadens  the  mind  and  elevates  it  to  a  higher  plane.  There  is 
no  science  so  exact  and  so  fully  established  as  astronomy.  The  dis- 
tance from  here  to  Atlanta  is  not  so  accurately  known  as  the  earth's 
orbit  around  the  sun.  A  great  astronomer  like  Herschel  or  Newton 
or  La  Place  can  look  through  the  telescope  at  Jupiter's  moons  whea 


286  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

they  are  in  an  eclipse,  and  then  mix  up  a  few  logorithms  and  fluxions 
and  parallaxes  and  tell  how  fast  light  travels  and  how  far  it  is  to  the 
remotest  planet  in  the  universe. 

The  children  wanted  to  know  why  the  new  year  began  with  Janu- 
ary, and  I  couldent  tell  them.  Christmas  would  have  been  a  better 
day.  The  new  era  should  have  begun  with  the  birth  of  Christ 
instead  of  a  week  later ;  or  the  year  should  begin  with  the  birth  of 
spring — the  21st  of  March — when  nature  is  putting  on  new  garments. 
Those  old  philosophers  got  things  awfully  mixed  up  anyhow.  Theur 
years  used  to  be  measured  by  the  moon,  and  they  had  thirteen 
months,  but  that  dident  fit,  and  so  they  fell  back  to  ten  months  of 
thirty-six  days  each,  and  that  dident  fit,  and  next  they  put  in  two 
more  months  and  had  no  leap  year,and  at  last  Pope  Gregory  fixed 
the  measure  all  right — just  as  we  have  it  now.  It  was  only  in  the 
last  century  that  the  civilized  nations  adopted  the  new  time.  Eussia 
hasent  adopted  it  yet;  but  I  don't  know  whether  she  is  civilized 
or  not. 

January  was  a  right  good  name  for  the  first  month.  He  was  a 
watchful  old  fellow  and  had  two  faces,  and  could  look  before  him  and 
behind  him  at  the  same  time.  It  is  a  good  idea  for  a  man  to  look 
back  over  the  year  that  has  gone  and  review  his  conduct,  and  then 
look  forward  and  promise  to  do  better.  But  most  of  the  months  were 
named  for  heathen  gods  who  never  existed,  and  so  were  the  days  of 
the  week.  I  wish  the  school  children  would  read  about  them  and  be 
able  to  answer  what  March  means,  and  April  and  Wednesday  and 
Thursday,  and  the  other  names.  Gather  knowledge  as  you  go  along 
— useful  knowledge — and  store  it  away.  If  you  havent  got  the  books 
borrow  them  from  somebody  and  read.  I  asked  two  young  men  yes- 
terday how  far  it  was  to  the  sun,  and  they  had  no  idea. 

1891!  There  is  a  meaning  in  those  figures.  Every  time  they  are 
written  on  a  letter  head  or  a  ledger  or  a  bank  check  or  a  note  or  a 
hotel  register,  or  printed  on  a  newspaper,  they  mean  something.  The 
pens  of  Christians  and  infidels  and  skeptics  and  agnostics  and  Jews 
and  Gentiles  are  all  writing  it  visible  and  indelible  upon  the  paper. 
Every  day,  every  hour,  every  minute,  it  is  being  written  all  over  the 
world,  and  every  mark  establishes  a  fact — a  great  fact — that  1891 
years  ago  there  was  a  birth — a  notable  birth — and  old  Father  Time 
began  a  new  count  and  called  it  Anno  Domini.     What  a  wonderful 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  287 

■«vent  it  must  have  been  that  closed  the  record  of  the  ages  and  started 
time  on  a  new  cycle.  How  in  the  world  did  it  happen  ?  The  Greeks 
had  their  calendar  and  the  Romans  had  theirs,  and  the  Jews  had  one 
that  was  handed  down  by  Moses,  but  all  of  them  were  overshadowed 
by  the  one  that  a  handful  of  Christians  set  up,  and  for  1400  years  the 
Anno  Domini  has  given  a  date  to  every  birth  and  death  and  event  in 
the  civilized  world.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  was  an  infidel  I  would 
not  place  these  figures  at  the  top  of  my  letters.  I  would  not  dignify 
the  birth  of  a  child  that  way ;  I  would  rather  write  5894  as  the  date 
-of  the  creation.  But,  no,  if  I  did  not  credit  Moses  and  the  prophets, 
I  couldent  choose  that  date,  and  so  I  would  have  no  date — no  era  to 
begin  with.  The  Greeks  had  their  Olympiads  to  date  from,  and  the 
Romans  the  birth  of  their  ancient  city,  and  the  Mohammedans  the 
flight  of  Mohamet,  but  a  modern  agnostic  has  nothing.  If  he  was  an 
American,  I  suppose  he  might  begin  with  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence, and  say  January  114.  The  Jew  is  better  ofi",  for  he  has  a  faith 
— a  faith  as  strong  as  the  ages — and  his  era  goes  back  to  Moses  and 
the  prophets,  but  even  he  has  to  conform  to  the  Anno  Domini  of  the 
Christian  in  all  his  business  relations  with  mankind.  If  he  was  to 
■date  a  business  letter  or  make  out  a  bill  of  goods  according  to  his  faith 
it  would  be  returned  to  him  for  explanations.  What  a  wonderful 
thing  is  this  date — these  four  simple  figures.  We  write  them  and  write 
them,  but  we  seldom  ponder  on  what  they  prove. 

On  New  Year's  night  I  was  talking  to  the  children  about  these 
things,  and  about  the  long  journey  we  had  taken  since  the  last  New 
Year.  We  have  gotten  back  to  the  same  place  in  the  universe  and 
have  traveled  nearly  three  hundred  million  of  miles.  Talk  about 
your  cannon  ball  trains  and  your  lightning  express !  Why,  we  have 
been  rwining  a  schedule  of  thirty  thousand  miles  an  hour  and  never 
stopped  for  coal  or  water,  and  never  had  a  jostle  nor  put  on  a  brake 
nor  greased  a  wheel.  Other  trains  have  crossed  our  track,  and  we 
have  crossed  theirs,  but  there  was  no  danger  signal,  no  sign  board,  no 
red  flag,  no  watchman.  Was  there  ever  an  engineer  so  reckless  of 
human  life?  Fifteen  hundred  millions  of  passengers  aboard,  and 
they  sleep  half  the  time.  Did  ever  passengers  ride  so  trustingly? 
And  what  is  more  wonderful  still,  our  train  has  a  little  fun  on  the 
way,  and  every  day  turns  a  summersault  twenty-five  thousand  miles 
round  just  for  the  enjoyment  and  health  of  the  passengers.     Turns 


288  The  Farm  and  The  FmEsmE, 

over  as  it  goes,  turns  at  a  speed  of  a  thousand  miles  an  hour  and  never 
loses  an  inch  of  space  or  a  moment  of  time.  "Wouldn't  it  be  big  fun 
if  we  could  stand  off  away  from  the  train  and  see  it  roll  on  and  turn 
as  it  rolled  and  see  the  passengers  all  calm  and  serene?  It  seems  to 
me  that  if  I  was  an  infidel  or  an  agnostic  I  would  want  to  get  ofi  this 
train — a  train  without  an  engineer — a  train  that  has  got  loose  from 
somewhere  and  is  running  wild  at  the  rate  of  500  miles  a  minute.  Talk 
about  your  Pullman  sleepers  and  vestibule  and  dining-room  cars  ! 
Why,  this  train  carries  houses  and  gardens  and  fruit  trees  and  every- 
thing good  to  eat.  It  is  a  family  train,  and  the  family  goes  along 
with  their  nabors  and  the  preacher  and  the  doctor  and  the  graveyard 
is  carried  along,  too,  so  that  if  anybody  dies  on  the  way  the  train 
don't  have  to  stop  for  a  funeral.  It  is  well  that  it  don't,  for  the 
passengers  are  dying  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  a  minute,  and  the  train 
would  never  get  anywhere  if  it  had  to  stop  to  bury  the  dead. 

Then  we  children  got  to  talking  about  the  centuries  away  back, 
when  the  months  and  the  years  were  unsettled,  and  nobody  seemed  to 
know  how  long  a  year  was  or  how  to  divide  it ;  when  the  changes  of 
the  moon  were  a  bigger  thing  than  going  round  the  sun ;  when  there 
were  only  ten  months  in  a  year,  and  a  year  was  only  360  days,  and  so 
January  kept  falling  back  until  it  got  to  be  summer  instead  of  winter  ; 
when  there  were  no  weeks,  except  among  the  Jews,  and  the  month 
was  divided  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans  into  three  decades  of  ten  days 
each ;  when  Julius  Caesar  tried  to  regulate  the  calendar  and  made 
the  year  365  days  and  gave  a  leap  year  of  366.  But  that  didn't  work 
exactly  right,  for  it  made  leap  year  eleven  minutes  too  long,  and  so, 
as  the  centuries  rolled  on,  it  was  found  in  1582  that  old  Father  Time 
had  gained  twelve  days  on  himself,  or  on  the  sun  or  something  else, 
and  Pope  Gregory  concluded  to  set  the  old  fellow  back  a  peg  or  two, 
and  he  did.  If  a  pope  could  make  us  all  twelve  days  younger  when 
he  pleased  to  do  it  he  would  be  a  very  popular  man,  I  reckon.  But 
the  calendar  is  all  right  now,  and  the  civilized  world  has  adopted  it. 
It  is  eleven  minutes  fast  every  four  years,  but  as  the  year  1900  is  not 
to  be  a  leap  year  the  gain  will  be  canceled  when  that  year  comes  Leap 
year  used  to  double  the  sixth  day  of  March  instead  of  adding  a  day 
to  February,  and  so  it  was  called  the  bis-sextile  year.  It  is  well  for 
the  children  to  know  these  things  for  they  are  worth  knowing. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  289 


CHAPTER  LIX. 


Oh!  These  Women! 

Oh,  thepe  women,  these  women — they  make  me  so  tired.  But  it  is 
a  sweet  service.  Here  I've  been  working  in  the  harness  for  forty 
years,  and  I  don't  reckon  I  would  be  happy  if  the  harness  was  off.  I 
I  know  I  wouldn't  for  sometimes  when  Mrs.  Arp  goes  oflf  to  spend  the 
day  I  don't  feel  natural  about  the  house.  I  want  somebody  to  order 
me  around  in  a  sweet,  feminine  way:  "William,  that  stick  that  was 
between  the  sash  has  fallen  out  and  is  down  there  on  the  ground — 
don't  you  feel  the  cool  air  coming  in  ?  William,  the  clock  needs  clean- 
ing very  bad — it  stopped  twice  yesterday — hadn't  you  better  take  it 
down  to  Mr.  Baker's?  William,  I  wish  you  would  get  a  little  paint 
and  give  the  old  mantlepiece  a  coat — you  have  scraped  so  many 
matches  on  it  to  light  your  old  pipe  that  it  is  a  sight.  A  little  can  of 
prepared  paint  won't  cost  much.  And  that  old  grate  needs  a  coat  of 
polish — oh !  I  did  see  some  of  the  loveliest  grates  down  at  the  exposi- 
tion, and  those  tiles  for  hearths  were  exquisite.  I  don't  mean  for  you 
to  buy  any,  but  I  am  just  telling  you.  Somehow,  whenever  I  tell  you 
about  the  beautiful  things  I  see,  you  look  like  you  didn't  have  a  friend 
in  the  world.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  that  I  want  you  to  buy  them. 
William,  what  am  I  do  with  the  flowers — the  geraniums,  and  ver- 
benas, and  all  the  potted  plants  ?  The  winter  is  coming  on,  and  I  do 
wish  we  had  a  little  pit  somewhere.  It  will  be  a  pity  to  lose  them. 
Hattie  has  had  a  pit  dug,  and  says  it  didn't  cost  but  two  dollars — and 
she  is  going  to  cover  it  with  a  cloth  frame.  Sam  Pitts  digs  pits," 
she  continued — "Sam  Pitts  digs  pits,"  said  I.  And  so  I  sent  for 
Uncle  Sam  and  marked  off  the  place,  six  by  ten,  and  squared  it 
according  to  rule,  and  he  had  been  digging  a  few  minutes  when  Mrs. 
Arp  raised  the  window  and  said  she  thought  it  was  a  little  too  far  that 
way,  and  so  I  moved  the  marks  a  couple  of  feet  and  began  to  dig 
again.     In  a  little  while  she  came  out  and  said  it  was  too  far  this  way. 


290  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

and  80  I  moved  it  back  where  it  was  at  first,  and  she  said  it  was  about 
right  now.  She  thinks  that  I  split  the  difference,  but  I  didn't.  The 
next  day  she  asked  me  in  a  gentle  voice  how  much  a  brick  wall  around 
the  top  would  cost — a  brick  wall  about  three  feet  high  on  one  side  and 
a  foot  high  on  the  other.  "And  sash  with  glass  for  a  cover,"  said  I, 
for  I  knew  she  was  thinking  about  it.  She  smiled  sweetly  and  said  : 
"Yes."  I  scratched  a  match  on  the  mantle  and  lit  my  pipe  and 
ruminated.  That  was  yesterday.  Mr.  White  is  making  those  sash  today, 
and  the  brick  mason  is  building  the  wall,  and  I  am  still  in  the  harness. 
Alek  Stephens  said  he  wanted  to  die  in  the  harness,  and  he  did ;  but  he 
never  knew  anything  about  matrimonial  breeching,  or  he  would  have 
wanted  to  live  and  not  die  at  all.  What  would  become  of  a  man  if 
he  didn't  have  a  woman  to  keep  him  lively?  When  we  were  in 
Atlanta  the  other  day,  my  wife  asked  me  for  five  dollars  to  buy  a  pair 
of  shoes.  "Have  shoes  gone  up ?"  said  I,  as  I  handed  her  the  money. 
No,  but  I  have,"  she  said — "I  want  a  fine  pair — shoes  that  are  as  soft 
as  kid  gloves ;  you  owe  me  lots  of  shoe  money ;  you  promised  me  before 
we  were  married  that  you  would  give  me  thirteen  pair  a  year — don't 
you  remember?"  "Yes,"  said  I,  "and  you  have  had  them  and  more 
too.  '  How  can  a  woman  raise  ten  children  on  less  than  thirteen  pair  a 
year  ?  But  I  would  have  promised  you  anything  then.  I  would  have 
climed  the  Chamborazo  mountains  and  fought  a  tiger  for  you  then — a 
small  tiger — but  I  would  fight  a  big  one  now.  Here,  take  another 
five  and  buy  you  some  fine  stockings  to  go  with  the  shoes,  but  don't 
buy  black  ones.  I  despise  to  see  a  white  woman  wear  black  stockings. 
It  is  like  a  heathen  Chinee  blacking  his  teeth."  I  wish  I  had  the 
making  of  the  fashions.  I  see  that  the  bustles  have  gone  out  at  last, 
and  I  am  glad  of  it — I  never  did  like  these  unnatural  humps  on  a 
woman's  back.  They  have  been  in  and  out  a  dozen  times  since  I  was 
a  boy,  and  so  have  hoop-skirts.  It  is  funny  to  see  a  new  fashion  come 
in  and  go  out.  There  are  women  in  my  town  still  wearing  bustles. 
They  feel  sorter  shamed  to  leave  them  off  all  of  a  sudden.  But  they 
will  fall  into  line  and  slim  down  before  long.  They  have  done 
slimmed  at  my  house.  They  keep  up  pretty  well.  I  saw  lots  of  nice 
ladies  at  the  fair  who  were  behind,  and  so  were  their  bustles,  but  they 
were  from  the  country  and  little  towns,  and  hadent  caught  up.  It  is 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  alter  a  bustle-dress  to  a  no-bustle-dress,  and 
all  the  mysterious  garments  underneath  have  to  be  altered,  too,  and 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsmE.  291 

that  is  why  it  takes  a  fashion  so  long  to  run  out.  It  costs  money  and 
^ork.  Now,  if  the  ladies  will  cut  off  about  four  inches  of  their  skirts 
and  keep  out  of  the  winter's  mud,  they  will  be  all  right.  Let  them 
show  their  ankles  if  they  want  to.  There  is  nothing  prettier  than  the 
-poetry  of  motion  that  is  in  a  lady's  foot  and  ankle  when  she  walks. 
It  pleases  an  old  man  mightily. 

But  the  men  have  passed  through  some  very  ridiculous  fashions, 
too.  When  I  was  in  my  teens  and  had  begun  to  notice  the  girls  and 
put  oil  on  my  hair  and  cinnamon  drops  on  my  handkerchief,  the  fash- 
ion was  to  wear  short  pants  and  straps — leather  straps  about  an  inch 
wide  that  came  under  the  shoe  and  fastened  to  buttons  sewed  on  the 
inside  of  the  pants.  When  a  feller  sat  down  the  whole  concern  was 
■drawn  as  tight  as  an  eelskin,  and  there  was  a  continual  strain  on  the 
straps  at  the  bottom  and  the  suspenders  at  the  top.  Sometimes 
a,  button  broke  or  a  strap  bursted  under  peculiar  circumstances,  and 
then  the  pants  crawled  up  amazingly.  One  day  I  was  riding  out  with 
my  sweetheart  and  the  catastrophe  happened  as  we  were  running  a 
galloping  race  up  a  long  hill,  and  my  pants  crawled  up  to  my  knees 
and  curried  the  undergarments  along,  and  it  was  on  her  side  of  the 
horse,  and  she  laughed  and  laughed  until  she  liked  to  have  fell  off, 
and  I  had  to  get  down  and  cut  a  skewer  off  of  a  rail  and  fasten  the 
strap  on  again.  The  mischievous  thing  told  it  on  me,  and  I  never  got 
even  with  her  until  one  day  her  bustle  came  untied  and  dropped  off 
as  she  was  passing  my  store,  and  I  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to  her 
with  a  bow  as  polite  as  a  Frenchman,  and  said:  Miss  Mary, 
your  shoe-strap  is  broken."  The  bustles  of  that  day  were  shaped  like 
a  new  moon  and  stuffed  with  bran.  They  were  generally  about  as  large 
as  a  hoe-handle  and  tapered  out  to  a  point  at  each  end,  but  the  more 
style  the  bigger  the  bustle.  They  were  all  home-made  and  were  con- 
sidered a  very  sacred  and  mysterious  article  of  feminine  furniture. 
Sometimes  one  of  these  big  ones  would  rip  from  long  wear  and  tear, 
and  the  bran  would  leak  out  as  the  woman  wiggled  along,  and  you 
could  track  her  all  the  way  home  just  like  the  hogs  would  track  a 
mill  boy  when  there  was  a  hole  in  his  corn  sack.  I  remember  when 
the  hoop-skirt  of  a  high-flying  woman  was  three  feet  across  at  the  bot- 
tom, and  when  she  stood  up  close  against  the  counter,  her  dress  didn't 
need  any  shortening  behind.  It  was  a  sight  of  trouble  to  squeeze 
them  in  the  pews  of  the  churches,  and  sometimes  they  behaved  in  a 


292  The  Farm  and  The  FmEsroE. 

very  unseemly  manner  when  the  wind  was  blowing  in  a  shifty  way. 
I  remember  when  the  college  boys  w^ore  boots  according  to  their  poli- 
tics. The  toes  were  shaped  like  a  duck's  bill,  and  were  turned  up  and 
over  on  top  of  the  foot  like  a  skate,  and  if  the  boy  was  a  whig  he  had 
Clay  printed  on  the  toes  in  large  letters,  and  if  he  was  a  democrat  he 
had  Polk  printed  there,  and  so  they  walked  about  sticking  their  poli- 
tics into  everybody's  faces. 

But  after  all,  I  believe  the  women  of  this  generation  are  more 
reasonable  in  their  dress  than  for  many  generations  past.  Three 
thousand  years  ago  they  were  fast,  very  fast,  for  Josiah  tells  about 
"the  bravery  of  their  tinkling  ornaments  about  their  feet  and  their 
cauls  and  their  round  tires  like  the  moon  (bustles,  I  reckon),  their 
chains  and  bracelets  and  mufflers,  the  bonnets  and  ornaments  of  the 
legs  and  headbands,  and  tablets  and  earrings,  and  nose  jewels  and 
changeable  suits  of  apparel,  and  the  mantles  and  wimples,  and  crisp- 
ing pins  and  hoods  and  vails."  Oh,  it  took  a  sight  to  set  up  one  of 
those  high-flying  Hebrew  women,  and  the  prophet  went  for  them  as 
fiercely  as  old  Allen  Turner  used  to  go  for  our  women  a  half  century 
ago.  "If  that  young  woman  with  the  green  bonnet  on  the  back  of 
her  head  and  the  devil's  martingales  around  her  neck  and  his  stirrups  on 
her  ears  don't  quit  her  giggling,  I'll  point  her  out  to  the  congrega- 
tion." Yes,  we  are  all  doing  better — except  some.  But  I  must  stop; 
Mrs.  Arp  is  calling  me  to  come  and  put  out  some  more  chrysanthe- 
mums, and  I'm  so  tired. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  293^ 


CHAPTER  LX. 


The  Mischievous  Little  Ones. 

There  is  a  wide  difference  between  mischief  and  meanness.  But 
mischief  is  close  akin  to  it,  when  it  injures  anybody  or  hurts  their 
feelings,  or  breaks  the  rules  or  the  laws.  Most  all  boys  love  a  little 
mischief.  I  used  to  love  a  good  deal.  I  remember  when  we  thought 
it  ever  so  smart  to  slip  around  at  night  and  change  the  gates  and  the 
signs,  or  stretch  a  rope  across  the  sidewalk,  or  tie  a  goat  in  the  school 
house,  or  put  one  man's  horse  in  another  man's  stable.  I  have  worked 
mighty  hard  at  such  things,  and  I  did  think  it  was  just  as  funny  as  it 
could  be,  but  somehow  or  other  I  don't  see  a  bit  of  fun  in  it  now.  I 
wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  My  children  inherited  mischief, 
I  reckon,  and  so  I  have  to  excuse  them,  but  when  my  little  girl 
thoughtlessly  pulled  the  chair  away  just  as  I  was  about  to  sit  down, 
and  I  came  down  with  a  shock  that  jarred  the  house,  and  my  feet  flew 
up  and  knocked  the  lamp  off  the  table,  I  was  mad,  very  mad,  until 
I  looked  at  her  and  saw  how  frightened  she  was,  for  she  hadn't  counted 
on  such  a  catastrophe.  So  I  tempered  down  and  picked  up  the  broken 
fragments  and  never  said  a  word,  and  it  was  a  minute  before  anybody 
spoke.  Mrs.  Arp  was  the  first  to  break  the  awful  silence  with  an 
explosion  of  laughter,  and  that  started  the  children,  of  course — all 
but  Jessie,  poor  little  little  thing,  who  come  to  me  and  said:  "Papa, 
I  didn't  mean  to  do  it."  I  knew  that  she  didn't,  but  my  offended 
dignity  was  at  stake,  and  I  got  me  another  lamp  and  went  to  writing. 
1  wanted  to  laugh  as  much  as  they  did,  but  I  wouldn't.  That  was 
four  years  ago,  and  Mrs.  Arp  is  not  done  laughing  at  it  yet  whenever 
it  is  alluded  to.  I  believe  it  would  do  her  good  to  see  me  bump  the 
floor  and  kick  over  a  lamp  about  once  a  week. 

I  was  ruminating  about  this  because  my  boy  came  home  from  school 
ahead  of  time  and  sat  down  before  the  fire  looking  solemn  and  sad.  I 
was  writing  by  the  window  and  wondered  what  was  the  matter.     For 


^94  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

awhile  he  never  moved  or  spoke,  but  suddenly  he  looked  up  at  me 
and  said,  in  a  pitiful  voice:  "Papa,  was  you  ever  suspended?" 
"Suspended?"  said  I.  "I  don't  understand  you — suspended  how?" 
"Suspended  from  school,"  said  he.  "Why,  no,"  said  I.  "What 
makes  you  ask  that  question?"  He  choked  up,  and  said:  "Well, 
I'm  suspended,  and  so  is  Tom  Milner."  "Is  it  possible?"  said  I,  as  I 
laid  down  my  pen.      "What  have  you  been  doing?" 

Then  he  told  as  how  he  and  Tom  had  got  to  throwing  water  at  each 
other  while  the  professor  was  in  the  other  room,  and  how  he  missed 
Tom  and  the  whole  dipper  full  struck  the  blackboard  and  put  out  the 
sum  and  ran  down  upon  the  floor,  and  the  professor  came  in  just  at 
the  wrong  time  and  asked  who  did  it,  and  suspended  him  and  Tom 
and  told  them  to  take  their  books  and  go  home.  I  felt  greatly 
relieved,  of  course,  for  I  saw  that  it  was  mischief  and  not  meanness, 
but  I  never  said  anything  and  looked  solemn  and  resumed  my  writing. 
Now,  it  distresses  my  children  to  see  me  distressed,  and  that  is  a  good 
sign.  As  long  as  a  boy  loves  his  parents,  and  is  troubled  when  they 
are  troubled,  there  is  hope  of  that  boy.  After  awhile  he  said :  '  'Papa, 
what  must  I  do  about  it?"  "I  don't  know,"  said  I,  "until  I  see  the 
professor.  Not  long  ago  we  had  up  a  case  of  suspension,  and  the 
board  refused  to  take  the  boy  back.  I  don't  know  what  they 
will  do  with  you  and  Tom.  I  expect  you  have  been  trying  the  pro- 
fessor's patience  for  some  time.  You  are  not  bad  boys  and  are  very 
good  scholars,  but  your  disposition  to  mischief  has  troubled  him  and 
set  a  bad  example.  The  other  boys  are  talking  about  you,  and  say 
that  the  professor  is  partial  to  you  and  Tom,  and  I'm  afraid  that  he  is; 
I  am  glad  that  he  has  stopped  your  mischief." 

But  it  came  out  all  right.  The  boys  were  not  suspended,  and  they 
went  back  the  next  morning  and  apologized,  and  now  everything  is 
calm  and  serene.  The  boys  must  conform  to  the  rules.  If  one  boy 
throws  water,  all  the  boys  have  the  right  to  throw  water,  and  that 
wouldent  do,  and  a  sensible  boy  knows  it.  Let  every  boy  act  upon 
principle.  They  may  be  tempted  to  tell  a  story  to  get  out  of  a  little 
scrape.  But  it  is  better  to  tell  the  truth.  The  truth  is  the  thing — 
the  biggest  thing  I  know  ot  If  I  had  a  great  business  that  would 
give  employment  to  a  thousand  boys,  and  I  had  to  go  about  and  select 
them,  the  first  question  I  would  ask  would  be,  "Does  he  always  tell 
the  truth  ?"     I  wish  the  boys  and  girls  could  realize  how  much  anxiety 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  295 

they  give  us.  Here  are  400  going  to  school  in  our  little  town,  and  in 
a  few  years  they  have  got  to  take  our  places  and  make  the  laws  and 
do  the  business  and  raake  up  society  and  establish  the  morals  of  the 
community,  and  upon  their  conduct  the  happiness  and  good  name  of 
the  people  will  depend.  The  young  men  of  this  generation  will  have 
to  solve  the  race  problem  and  all  the  other  problems,  and  upon  them 
will  depend  the  existence  of  the  government.  We  think  about  this  a 
good  deal  for  it  effects  our  children  and  grandchildren.  It  troubles  us 
to  think  about  wars  and  anarchy  and  revolution,  and  about  tyrants  and 
bad  men  getting  into  power,  and  about  the  rich  getting  richer  and  the 
poor  poorer.  I  know  that  it  will  be  all  right  if  the  people  will  do 
right — if  the  children  grow  up  with  good  morals  and  good  principles. 
We  have  got  good  schools  almost  everywhere  in  the  South.  I  know 
we  have  in  Cartersville.  I  am  proud  of  the  professors  and  the  teach- 
ers and  the  pupils.  We  are  a  long  ways  ahead  of  Boston.  There  are 
no  hip  pockets  in  our  schools,  no  kicking  of  teachers,  no  bands  of 
forty  thieves.  We  have  Christian  teachers  and  the  moral  training 
goes  right  along  with  the  school  books.  The  boy  or  girl  who  gets  no 
more  education  than  can  be  had  in  our  schools  has  the  foundation  laid 
for  any  beginner  in  life. 

St.  Valentine's  day  has  come  again  and  the  good  old  fellow  does 
seem  to  have  some  influence  upon  the  bipeds,  for  our  young  people 
are  mating  and  marrying  all  around  us.  That  is  all  right,  and  we 
love  to  see  it  going  on,  for  it  is  according  to  nature.  Most  everybody 
takes  some  stock  in  the  marriages  of  the  young  folks.  Even  the  old 
bachelors  and  old  maids  wake  up  and  smile  and  bid  them  good  speed. 
They  are  taking  a  great  risk,  we  know,  but  it  is  best  to  take  it,  even 
if  the  venture  is  a  failure.  If  it  is  a  failure,  it  is  their  fault.  I  never 
knew  an  unhappy  marriage  that  was  not  made  so  by  one  or  both  of 
the  parties.  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  marry  in  haste  and  repent  at  leisure. 
It  don't  pay  to  marry  by  the  month.  I  never  hear  of  hasty  and 
inconsiderate  marriages  but  what  I  think  of  those  sad  and  seriou? 
lines  of  Tom  Hood: 

"  Oh  very,  very  dreary  is  the  room 

"Where  love,  domestic  love,  no  longer  nestles; 
But  smitten  hy  the  common  stroke  of  doom, 
The  corpse  lies  on  the  trestles." 


■296  The  Farm  and  The  FmEsroE. 

The  corpse  of  conjugal  love  is  an  awful  corpse.  Not  long  ago  a 
married  woman  asked  me  for  $10.  She  said  her  husband  had  money, 
but  she  wouldn't  ask  him  for  a  dollar  if  she  never  got  any.  There  is 
a  corpse  in  that  house.  The  husband  is  stingy  and  tyranical — the 
wife  is  proud  and  sensitive,  and  so  love  got  sick  soon  after  the  mar- 
riage and  lingered  and  languished  and  died.  A  man  ought  not  to 
force  his  wife  to  ask  him  for  money.  It  does  humiliate  a  woman.  It 
makes  her  feel  her  helplessness,  her  dependence,  and  smothers  her 
equality.  The  husband  ought  to  anticipate  her  wants  if  he  is  able. 
The  money  or  the  bank  account  ought  to  be  at  her  disposal  at  all 
times,  for  she  will  spend  less  of  it  foolishly  than  he  will.  A  very  con- 
siderate wife  told  me  that  it  was  her  greatest  trial  to  ask  her  husband 
for  money,  though  he  was  always  kind  and  never  refused.  And  I  sus- 
pect there  is  many  a  good  wife  who  is  humiliated  in  the  same  way.  It 
is  St.  Valentine's  season  now,  and  a  fit  time  for  the  married  folks  to 
mate  again  and  renew  their  promises.  What  a  pity  that  love  should 
get  sick  so  soon  and  turn  into  a  corpse — a  corpse  that  cannot  be 
buried  but  stays  in  the  house  by  day  and  by  night.  From  such  a 
corpse,  good  Lord  deliver  us. 


The  Fakm  and  The  riKEsmE.  297 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


Thoughts  on  Spring  and  Love. 

"Hail,  gentle  spring!"  saith  the  poet.  She  didn't  hail  but  she 
snowed  and  sleeted  a  little.  Another  poet  says:  "Winter  lingers  in 
the  lap  of  spring."  The  old  rascal  keeps  on  lingering  there— he  likes 
the  place.  I  wish  the  gentle  maiden  would  shove  him  off  and  tell 
him  to  go.  She  seems  to  like  his  caresses — I  haven't  seen  an  alder  tag 
nor  red  maple  ear  drop  this  year.  It  is  time  for  the  dogwood  to  bloom 
and  the  wild  violets  to  peep  out  from  their  wintry  beds,  and  the  min- 
nows to  play  in  the  branches,  and  the  lambs  to  shake  their  new-born 
tails.  Every  few  days  the  robins  come  and  the  bluebirds  sit  longingly 
on  the  broken  cornstalks,  but  they  don't  stay  long.  The  plum-tree  blooms 
look  sickly,  and  the  peach  bud  don't  know  whether  to  venture  out  or 
not.  Spring  poets  are  languishing  and,  languishing  do  live,  and  all 
nature  seems  waiting  and  wishing  for  the  grass  to  spring,  and  the  flow- 
ers to  bloom,  and  the  birds  to  sing,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  dove  to 
be  heard  in  the  land. 

It  is  now  five  long  weeks  since  the  good  St.  Valentine  told  the  birds 
to  mate  and  the  girls  and  boys  to  go  wooing.  St.  Patrick  has  been 
out  and  shook  his  shelalah  at  the  snakes,  but  still  gentle  Spring  keeps 
on  flirting  and  fooling  with  old  man  Winter  and  makes  him  believe 
she  is  in  love  with  him.  But  she  isent.  May  and  December  never 
mate,  ndr  March  and  November.  It  is  against  the  order  of  nature. 
We  old  people  can  look  and  linger  and  admire,  but  that  is  all.  We 
have  sailed  down  the  river  and  encountered  its  perils,  its  reefs  and 
rocks  and  shoals  and  quicksands,  but,  strange  to  say,  we  give  no  warn- 
ing. Maybe  it  is  because  we  know  that  warning  will  do  no  good; 
maybe,  because  misery  loves  company;  maybe,  because  it  is  the  order 
•of  nature,  the  fiat  of  the  Almighty.  Verily,  the  young  people  would 
mate  and  marry  and  launch  their  boat  and  sail  down  that  river  if  they 
knew  there  was  a  Scylla  and  Charybdis  at  every  bend  and  leviathans 


298  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

and  malestroms  and  cataracts  all  the  way  down.  Poor,  trusting,  suf- 
fering woman.  What  perils,  what  trials,  what  afflictions  does  the 
maternal  instinct  bring  upon  you!  Close  by  us,  while  I  write,  is  a 
beautiful  young  mother  lingering  in  the  grasp  of  death — dying  that 
her  first-born  child  may  live.  There  is  nothing  more  touching,  more 
pitiful,  more  heroic  in  nature.  There  is  nothing  that  a  man  is  called 
upon  to  endure  that  compares  with  the  death  of  a  mother  in  child- 
birth. 

But  there  is  a  brighter  side — a  more  charming,  comforting  picture 
of  life — married  life,  domestic  life — when  the  good  mother  is  a 
matron,  and  looks  with  pride  upon  her  children  and  grandchildren  as 
they  come  and  go  lovingly  before  her.  What  calm  serenity  hovers 
over  her  matronly  face.  What  sweet  content,  what  grateful  rest — 
rest  from  her  labors,  her  pains,  her  care  and  anxiety.  Well  may  she 
exclaim  with  Paul:  " I  have  fought  a  good  fight;  I  have  kept  the 
faith;  I  have  finished  my  course.  Henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me 
a  crown  of  righteousness." 

To  every  lad  and  lassie  there  is  a  period  of  life  not  always  thrilling 
or  tragical,  but  highly  emotional  and  sensational.  Of  course,  I  mean 
the  period  of  love — young  love — or  loves  young  dream,  which  some- 
times runs  smooth  and  sometimes  don't.  What  a  luxury  it  would  be 
to  look  behind  the  curtain  and  see  just  what  love  has  felt  and  suffered 
and  enjoyed.  Such  a  kaleidoscope  would  have  a  world  of  eager  lookers, 
for  the  old  are  as  fascinated  with  stories  of  love  and  courtship  as  the 
middle-aged  and  young.  In  looking  over  the  daily  or  weekly  paper 
we  may  skip  the  displayed  headings  of  war  in  Bulgaria  or  riots  in 
London  or  murders  in  Wyoming,  but  any  little  paragraph  that  has 
love  in  it,  arrests  the  eye  and  demands  attention.  Children  go  to  school 
to  study  books,  but  by  the  time  they  are  in  their  teens  they  begin  to 
mix  a  little  timid,  cautious  love  with  their  other  studies.  A  sweet- 
heart is  a  blessed  thing  for  a  boy.  It  straightens  him  up  and  washes 
his  face  and  greases  his  hair  and  brushes  his  teeth  and  stimulates  his 
ambition  to  excel  and  be  somebody.  Jerusalem!  How  I  did  luxuriate 
and  palpitate  and  concentrate  towards  the  first  little  school  girl  I  ever 
loved.  She  was  as  pretty  as  a  pink  and  as  sweet  as  a  daisy,  and  one 
day  at  recess,  when  nobody  was  looking,  I  caught  her  on  the  stairs 
and  kissed  her.  She  was  dreadfully  frightened,  but  not  mad.  Oh  no, 
not  mad.     She  ran  away  with  blushes  on  her  cheek,  and  more  than 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  299 

once  that  evening  I  saw  her  glance  at  me  from  behind  her  book  and 
wondering  if  I  would  ev^er  be  so  rash  again. 

And  now,  Mr.  Editor,  if  a  thousand  of  your  patrons  peruse  these 
random  memories,  nine  hundred  of  them  can  finish  up  the  chapter 
from  their  own  unwritten  book.  Who  has  not  loved,  who  has  not 
stolen  a  kiss,  who  has  not  caught  its  palpitating  thrill  and  felt  like 
Jacob  when  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept.  Oh,  Rachel,  beautiful 
and  well  favored,  no  wonder  that  Jacob  watered  thy  sheep  and  then 
kissed  thee,  for  there  was  no  one  to  molest  or  make  thee  afraid.  That 
memorable  kiss  is  now  4,000  years  old,  and  has  passed  into  history  as 
classic  and  pure,  but  I  have  had  them,  and  so  have  you,  dear  reader, 
just  as  sweet  and  soul-inspiring,  and  never  said  anything  about  it  to 
anybody.  Ours'  was  a  mixed  school,  and  every  Friday  the  larger  boys 
and  girls  had  to  stand  up  in  a  line  and  spell  and  define.  My  sweet- 
heart stood  head  most  generally,  and  so  I  was  stimulated  to  get  next 
to  her,  and  I  did,  and  my  right  hand  slyly  found  her  left,  and  we  both 
were  happy.  But  time  and  circumstances  separated  us,  and  we  both 
found  new  loves — she  married  another  feller  and  was  content,  and  so 
did  I,  but  neither  of  us  have  forgotten  the  stolen  kiss  or  that  tender 
childish  love  that  made  our  school-days  happy.  But  love  becomes 
more  earnest  after  awhile — more  intense,  more  frantic — the  young 
man  means  business  and  so  does  the  maiden.  Like  the  turtle-doves 
in  the  spring  of  the  year,  they  are  looking  around  for  a  mate.  This  is 
I  nature,  and  it  is  right.  God  said,  "It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone;  I  will  make  a  helpmeet  for  him."  And  so  he  made  Eve  to 
help  meet  the  expenses,  and  that  is  what  a  wife  ought  to  do  now,  but 
a  good  many  of  them  don't.  They  help  make  them,  but  they  don't 
help  meet  them,  and  that  is  why  the  young  men  have  almost  quit 
marrying.  The  rich  girls  won't  have  them,  and  the  poor  girls  are 
trying  to  keep  up  with  the  rich,  and  so  the  turtle-doves  mate  slowly 
now-a-days.  Folks  need  to  love  and  court  and  marry  with  more  alac- 
rity than  they  do  now.  It  is  not  vanity  to  say  that  I  could  have 
married  half  a  dozen  nice  girls,  and  my  wife  could  have  had  choice 
of  a  dozen  clever,  prosperous  youths  as  likely  as  myself.  Cupid  just 
roosted  all  around  those  woods  and  shot  his  arrows  right  and  left. 
Sometimes  he  shoots  a  young  man  and  then  waits  days  and  weeks 
before  he  shoots  the  girl  he  is  after.  This  keeps  the  poor  fellow  on 
the  warpath,  and  frantic  and  rampant,  and  Cupid  laughs.     But  he 


300  The  Farm,  and  The  FiREsroE. 

was  clever  to  me,  for  as  near  as  I  can  judge,  lie  let  fly  both  arrows  at 
once  and  plugged  my  girl  and  me  simultaneously,  and  with  a  center 
shot.  My  wife  denies  this,  but  I  have  told  it  so  often  I  believe  it. 
There  was  no  skirmishing  on  my  part.  I  never  did  shoot  with  a  scat- 
tering gun.  Marrying  was  cheap  in  those  days.  My  recollection  is 
that  it  cost  me  only  about  forty-five  dollars — twenty-five  for  clothes, 
ten  for  a  ring  and  ten  more  to  the  preacher.  It  didn't  cost  anybody 
else  anything  to  speak  of,  for  there  were  no  wedding  presents.  That 
tomfoolery  wasent  invented.  We  didn't  go  to  Niagara,  or  anywhere 
right  away,  but  we  went  to  work.  A  month  or  so  later,  we  did  take  a 
little  trip  to  Tallulah  Falls  and  look  at  the  water  tumble  over  the 
rocks,  but  that  didn't  cost  but  a  few  dollars  and  made  no  sensation 
outside  the  family.  My  thoughtful  wife  had  enough  nice  clothes  to 
last  her  two  years  when  I  married  her,  and  they  were  long  afterwards 
cut  up  and  cut  down  for  the  children  and  there  are  some  precious  frag- 
ments hid  away  in  the  old  trunk  now.  The  old  trunk,  and  of  com- 
mon size,  was  sufficient  then  for  a  traveling  wardrobe  for  a  lady  of  the 
land.  My  father  and  mother  and  two  children  made  a  journey  by  sea 
to  Boston  with  one  trunk  and  a  valise,  and  came  back  to  Georgia  by 
land,  in  a  carriage;  but  not  long  since  I  saw  a  delicate  female  travel- 
ing with  two  trunks  four  times  as  large,  and  ribbed  with  iron,  and 
fastened  with  three  massive  locks,  and  still  she  was  not  happy.  Oh, 
my  country!  That  girl  was  too  much  in  love  with  her  clothes  to  love 
a  man,  and  nobody  but  a  fortune-hunter  would  dare  to  marry  her. 
Young  man,  beware  of  trunks! 


The  Farm  and  The  Firesu)E.  301 


CHAPTER  LXII. 


Bill  Arp  Plays  Ringmaster. 

Mrs.  Arp  was  quietly  reading  The  Comtitution  yesterday  while 
the  children  were  out  doors.  After  awhile  she  paused,  and  looking 
over  her  spectacles  at  me,  remarked :  *'  I  thought  that  maybe  you  would 
have  mentioned  that  little  circumstance  about  the  buggy  and  the  ring- 
master in  one  of  your  letters,  but  I  suppose  it  does  not  seem  to  you  to 
be  very  interesting  matter  to  write  about.  Probably  if  the  horse  had 
run  away  with  me,  the  public  would  have  heard  of  it."  And  with  that 
she  resumed  her  reading.  Well,  that's  a  fact.  I  was  thinking  that 
the  less  said  about  some  things  the  better ;  and  besides,  as  I  told  her, 
I  didn't  want  to  make  a  hero  of  myself  in  such  a  small  transaction. 
She  quietly  replied:  "Oh,  no,  of  course  not;  but  I  didn't  think 
there  was  very  much  hero  about  it,  and  thought  you  could  mention 
it  in  a  small  way  without  any  particular  peril — just  to  fill  up,  you 
know."     So  I  reckon  I  had  better  tell  it. 

It  was  her  buggy.  One  of  her  boys  bought  it  and  gave  it  to  her. 
It  had  a  nice  top,  and  a  phaeton  shaped  body  that  she  could  get  into 
so  easy,  and  the  harness  were  hers,  and  the  whip.  Everything  was 
new  and  nice,  and  she  had  taken  but  two  rides  in  it,  and  so  one  day  I 
hinted  that  I  would  like  to  see  how  it  meandered  over  the  country, 
and  as  it  was  all  agreeable,  I  had  my  young  horse  hitched  in,  and  sailed 
around  smartly.  We  had  worked  that  horse  in  the  wagon  and  in  the 
plow,  and  considered  him  pretty  well  broke,  for  he  came  from  gentle 
stock,  and  we  had  raised  him  and  petted  him,  and  so  had  no  fears 
about  his  behavior.  One  of  the  girls  had  been  riding  with  me,  and  I 
let  her  get  out  at  the  front  gate  and  drove  on  up  to  the  big  farm  gate 
at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  opened  it  and  led  the  black  rascal  through, 
and  I  thought  he  was  serene,  and  knew  he  was  tired,  and  so  I  just  stepped 
back  for  a  moment  to  shut  the  gate,  and  away  he  went  like  he  was 
shot  oiit  of  a  gun.     He  run  down  to  the  horse  lot  gate  all  right,  and  I 


302  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

thought  would  surely  stop  there ;  but  finding  the  gate  shut,  he  took  a 
little  roundance  and  went  sailing  down  towards  the  spring,  and  jumped 
over  a  big  log,  and  the  buggy  jumped  too,  for  it  was  doing  its  level 
best  to  keep  up,  and  then  he  took  the  grand  rounds  of  the  hillside 
grove,  and  every  time  I  tried  to  head  and  catch  him  he  dodged  me, 
and  kept  on  with  the  buggy,  sometimes  on  four  wheels  and  sometimes 
on  two.  I  had  the  whip  in  my  hand,  and  Mrs.  Arp,  my  wife,  says 
that  when  she  came  to  the  back  door  to  see  what  was  the  racket,  I  was 
standing  there  with  the  whip  a-waving,  and  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  a  ring  master  in  a  circus,  and  she  actually  thought  I  was  making 
the  colt  run  round  just  for  my  own  amusement.  Well,  there's  no  use 
in  making  a  long  story  of  it  now,  for  what's  done  can't  be  helped. 
That  colt  tore  that  buggy  all  to  pieces,  and  got  away  from  it  bsfore  he 
quit  trying.  He  run  it  against  three  trees  and  over  four  logs,  and  left 
the  beautiful  top  in  one  place  and  the  wheels  in  another,  and  the 
shafts  got  bent  backwards  underneath  the  running  gear,  and  I  can't 
tell  to  this  day  how  they  got  there. 

I  walked  into  the  house  and  said  nothing  for  ten  minutes,  and  I 
didn't  want  anybody  to  say  anything  to  me.  Mrs.  Arp  never  said 
nothing,  either,  but  set  down  to  her  sewing  just  as  natural,  and  sorter 
hummed  a  piece  of  a  tune.  After  a  spell  she  looked  over  at  my  side 
of  the  house,  and  remarked : 

*'It  was  a  very  pleasant  evening  for  your  ride." 

"Uncommon,"  said  I. 

"I  expect  it  will  be  good  for  your  rheumatism  for  you  to  take  a 
ride  every  evening,"  said  she. 

"They  say  that  walking  is  better  for  rheumatism  than  riding,' 
said  I. 

"Well,  you  will  have  a  good  chance  for  that  now,"  said  she;  and 
she  laid  down  her  work  and  laughed  at  me — and  that's  the  way  she 
broke  me  of  the  pouting  melancholy.  And  that's  always  the  way. 
AVhen  I  am  distressed  and  low  down,  she  is  all  serene  and  lively  and 
cheers  me  up.  Fact  is,  she  gave  me  such  comfort  about  that  buggy 
business  that  I  am  almost  glad  it  happened.  But  still  I  am  sorter 
sore  about  that  ring  master  part  of  it,  and  then  again,  I  overheard  the 
children  asking  Ralph  if  he  wasn't  glad  that  it  wasn't  him.  And 
Ralph  said,  "Goodness  gracious!  I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happened  to 
me  for  a  hundred  dollars." 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  303 

"Well,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  might  have  been,  for  I  might  have  been 
in  it  and  had  my  wheels  and  my  body  and  springs  all  tore  up.  It 
will  cost  about  twenty  dollars  to  repair  the  damage,  and  she  says  she 
will  pick  it  up  in  the  road,  or  get  it  somehow,  and  that  I  mustn't  be 
bothered. 

I  was  telling  my  nabor  Buford  about  it  yesterday  as  a  great  calamity, 
and  he  laughed  and  said:  "All  we  country  folks  are  used  to  those 
things  and  a  heap  worse.  Why,"  says  he,  "it  was  only  yesterday 
morning  that  I  and  my  brother  Alf  concluded  to  go  to  town,  creek  or 
no  creek,  for  we  knew  it  was  up  mighty  high,  and  so  we  took  round- 
ance  for  a  shallower  ford  up  at  Bradley's,  and  in  we  went  all  right  till 
we  got  to  the  little  deep  swimming  place,  and  the  horse  gave  a  lunge 
to  jump  that  and  popped  the  single-tree,  and  away  he  went  out  of  the 
shafts  and  broke  loose  the  hip  straps  and  got  to  bank ;  but  me  and  Alf 
was  in  the  buggy  trying  to  hold  it  down,  and  as  I  leaned  over  to  catch 
my  overcoat  that  was  floating  away,  the  buggy  just  careened  over  and 
spilt  us  both  in  the  water,  and  it  turned  over  on  us,  and  Alf  grabbed  holt 
of  one  wheel  and  I  of  another,  and  we  tried  to  hold  it,  but  we  had  got 
into  a  sort  of  a  whirlpool  that  was  over  our  heads,  and  the  box  body 
just  turned  round  and  round  and  over  and  under,  and  sometimes  we 
were  on  top  and  sometimes  the  buggy  was  on  top,  and  we  see-sawed 
that  way  and  thingemajigged  down  the  creek  for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards,  and  had  finally  to  let  go  and  swim  for  the  bank.  If  you  ever 
saw  drowned  rats  we  were  them,  and  we  were  so  tired  and  so  surprised 
we  just  set  there  on  the  bank  and  looked  at  one  another  and  smiled, 
but  the  smiles  were  fixiut  and  sickly.  I  followed  on. down  the  creek 
and  found  my  overcoat  hung  on  a  haw  bush,  and  had  to  swim  in  to  get 
it,  but  my  best  shoes  were  gone  for  good,  and  my  shawl  and  some  other 
things  that  were  upon  the  seat  and  under  it.  Well,  now,  you  see,  the 
body  got  broke  aloose  and  went  off,  and  the  wheels  and  running  gear 
are  down  in  Bishop's  mill  pond.  But  we  got  the  horse  home,  and  no 
lives  lost  or  limbs  broken,  and  are  thankful.  Alf  and  I  walked  home 
bare  headed,  and  we  went  a  half  mile  out  of  the  way  to  keep  anybody 
from  seeing  us.  Our  clothes  weighed  mighty  nigh  a  hundred  pounds, 
besides  the  overcoat,  and  we  left  a  wet  track  behind  us.  Alf  smiled 
again  on  the  way,  and  says  he :  '  Oliver,  1  tell  you  what's  a  fact,  folks 
oughtent  to  be  expecting  too  much  good  luck  in  this  sin-struck  world 
nohow,  but  there  is  always  something  good  mixed  up  with  the  bad.' 


304  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

'Well,  1  should  like  to  know  what  good  there  is  about  this?"  said  I. 
'Why,  said  he,  'we  got  such  a  good  washing;  I  reckon  we  are^ about 
the  cleanest  folks  in  the  settlement.'  After  while  he  smiled  again,  and 
looked  at  me  and  said:  'Well,  the  cyclone  struck  us  and  tore  us  up, 
and  our  fall  oats  are  all  killed,  and  now  the  high  waters  have  over- 
flowed us.  I  wonder  what  is  to  be  the  next  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence.    I  reckon  it's  a  good  time  to  sing : 

'  How  firm  a  foundation,  ye  saints  of  the  Lord.'  " 

What  a  good  thing  it  is  to  have  on  hand  at  all  times  a  stock  of 
resignation.  How  comforting  is  adversity.  An  old  Latin  poet  tries 
to  describe  a  perfect  man,  and  says,  among  other  things,  that  he  must 
never  get  out  of  temper,  nor  live  above  or  below  a  certain  line  of  calm 
serenity.  That  will  do  pretty  w  ell  for  a  man,  I  reckon,  but  it  wouldent 
suit  a  woman  at  all.  I  heard  a  smart  old  man  say  once  that  a  woman 
who  didn't  have  temper,  and  show  it  now  and  then,  was  no  account,  for 
while  a  man  ought  to  be  a  philosopher  and  go  according  to  reason,  a 
woman  wasent  made  that  way.  She  is  full  of  emotions,  and  is  bound 
to  show  them.  She  is  up  and  down — now  calm  and  now  excited — 
according  to  circumstances.  Her  love  is  stronger,  and  her  dislike  more 
intense.  She  has  more  wonder  and  curiosity,  more  tenderness  and 
tears,  more  sympathy  and  reverence  and  hope.  In  fact,  she  is  a  purer, 
better  creation,  and  was  made  so  because  she  was  to  be  a  mother  and 
the  nurse  of  children. 

"Her  prentice  hand  she  tried  on  man 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses." 

I  was  talking  to  a  nice  lady  one  day  about  woman's  rights,  and  she- 
said  that  men  and  women  both  had  too  many  rights  now,  and  indulged 
themselves  in  some  that  dident  belong  to  them.  "For  instance,"  said 
she,  a  "man  has  no  right  to  be  a  fool,  and  no  woman  a  right  to  be 
homely."  "But  how  can  she  help  it?"  said  I.  "If  a  woman  is  born 
'ugly,'  as  we  call  it,  it  surely  is  not  her  fault."  "Of  course  not,"  said 
she,. "but  if  she  is  born  that  way,  she  mussent  stay  that  way.  She 
can  be  good  if  she  wants  to  be,  and  she  can  be  kind  and  entertaining, 
and  that  will  make  any  woman  pretty  on  intimate  acquaintance.  The 
homeliest  woman  I  ever  knew  was  the  most  fascinating  and  attractive. 
And  just  so  the  biggest  dunce  of  a  man  can  keep  from  being  a  fool  if 
he  tries  to;  at  least  he  can  be  a  silent  one,  and  then  folks  wouldent 
find  out  he  was  a  fool." 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireslde.  305 


CHAPTER    LXIII. 


Doctors  Turned  Loose, 

Over  200  new  doctors  turned  loose  upon  the  country — 200  from 
Atlanta  alone,  and  a  big  lot  from  Augusta,  besides.  I  went  down  on 
Monday  to  see  our  boy  graduate.  His  mother  went,  too,  for  she 
believes  he  is  a  natural-born  doctor  and  can  cure  anybody  of  any- 
thing, whether  he  has  got  it  or  not.  When  he  comes  home  she  will 
get  sick  just  for  him  to  have  a  patient.  Old  Uncle  Sam  was  com- 
plaining, and  she  told  him  to  wait  until  her  doctor  came.  She  has 
confidence  in  his  technical  words,  all  mixed  up  with  Latin  and  Greek 
and  other  foreign  languages.  And  then,  there  is  his  diploma  that  is 
in  Latin,  and  it  was  presented  by  Col.  Hammond  in  a  Latin  speech. 
I  suppose  this  dead  language  is  used  as  a  symbol  of  the  doctor's  work. 
Col.  Hammond  spoke  in  a  grave  tone  of  voice.  He  said  that  the 
prophet  Jeremiah  exclaimed,  "Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead — is  there 
no  physician  there !  "  If  he  had  lived  in  our  day  and  witnessed  the 
scene  before  us,  he  would  not  have  asked  that  question  concerning 
Atlanta.  Here  are  eighty-six  just  made  from  one  college.  And  he 
advised  them  all  to  emulate  St.  Luke,  whom  Paul  called  the  beloved 
physician.  Col.  Hammond  knows  a  power  of  Scripture,  but  he 
didn't  mention  King  Asa,  "who  was  diseased  in  his  feet,  and  his 
disease  was  exceding  great,  yet  he  sought  not  the  Lord,  but  sought 
physicians,  and  he  slept  with  his  fathers."  Nor  did  he  mention  that 
"certain  woman  which  had  an  issue  of  blood  for  twelve  years,  and 
had  suffered  many  .things  of  many  physicians,  and  had  spent  all  that 
she  had,  and  was  nothing  better,  but  rather  grew  worse."  Col.  Ham- 
mond is  an  optimist,  and  looks  on  the  bright  side,  and  encouraged  the 
young  doctors.  He  looked  at  the  beautiful  bouquets  that  were  sent 
upon  the  stage,  and  said:  "Young  gentlemen,  these  flowers  are  very 
beautiful  and  very  appropriate  for  the  occasion,  but  they  are  before 
you.  Let  your  zeal,  your  t^tudy,  your  skill  so  inspire  your  professional 
life  that  you  ca'n  look  back  and  see  flowers  behind  you.  Flowers  of 
praise  and  confidence  from  your  patients  and  your  patrons." 


306  The  Farm  and  Tboe  Fireside. 

He  then  presented  the  doctors  with  their  sheepskins  and  called  each 
one  by  his  Latin  name,  and  some  of  them  were  so  peculiar  and 
unique  they  brought  down  the  house,  for  John  was  Johannes,  and 
William  was  Gulielmus,  and  Ralph  was  Radulphus.  It  reminded  me 
of  a  lawsuit  in  a  justice's  court  that  happened  a  long  time  ago  when 
Mark  Blandford,  who  recently  resigned  from  the  bench  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  was  a  devilish  young  lawyer.  A  doctor  sued  a  man  for 
his  medical  bill  of  $15,  and  the  man  employed  Mark  to  fight  the  case, 
for  he  said  the  doctor  was  no  account  and  he  discharged  him.  The 
doctor  Bwore  to  his  account,  and  Mark  called  for  his  license,  or  his 
diploma,  and  made  the  point  that  no  doctor  had  a  right  to  practice 
without  one,  and  he  read  the  law  to  the  'squire.  And  so  the  old 
'squire  told  the  doctor  to  show  his  sheepskin.  He  said  he  had  one  at 
home,  and  asked  for  leave  to  go  after  it.  It  was  just  six  miles  to  town, 
and  he  rode  in  a  hurry,  and  returned  all  in  a  sweat  of  perspiration. 
With  an  air  of  triumph  he  handed  it  over  to  Mark  and  said:  "Now, 
what  have  you  got  to  say?"  Mark  unrolled  it  and  saw  that  it  was  in 
Latin.  The  doctor's  name  was  John  Williamson  Head,  but  the  Latin 
made  it  Johannes  Gulielmus,  filius,  Caput.  That  was  enough  for 
Mark.  He  made  the  point  that  it  was  not  a  diploma,  but  was  an  old 
land  grant  that  was  issued  in  old  colony  times  to  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Caput.  He  said  he  had  read  about  the  Caputs,  and  one  of  their 
ancestors  whose  name  was  John  Sebastian  Caput,  discovered  America, 
and  this  land  grant  was  a  bounty  from  the  king  of  Spain.  The  doc- 
tor raved  furiously,  but  Mark  stuck  to  it  that  there  was  no  mention  in 
the  document  of  John  William  Head — that  it  was  issued  to  one 
Johannes  Gulielmus,  filius.  Caput — a  very  different  person — and  he 
asked  the  doctor  to  please  to  read  the  thing  to  the  court.  Of  course 
the  doctor  couldn't  do  it  and  he  lost  his  case.  The  old  'squire  said  that 
he  didn't  know  whether  it  was  a  land  grant  or  a  diploma  or  a  patent 
for  some  machine,  and  if  the  doctor  couldn't  read  it,  he  wasent  fitten  to 
use  it.  And  so  I  think  those  eighty -six  doctors  had  better  get  Col. 
Hammond  to  translate  their  diplomas,  and  then  learn  the  English  by 
heart. 

Professor  Lane  gave  the  large  audience  a  rare  treat — a  combination 
of  wit  and  wisdom  that  only  Charley  Lane  can  make  up.  He  rested 
his  manuscript  on  an  hour  glass  about  four  feet  high,  and  all  his  seri- 
ous, scholarly  thoughts  w^ere  there,  but  ever  and  anon  he  stepped  to 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  307 

the  front  and  illustrated  his  wisdom  with  humorous  anecdotes  that 
kept  his  hearers'  eyes  open,  and  their  mouths  too.  He  was  hard  down 
upon  patent  medicines,  and  told  how  Yacob  Straus  got  up  a  nostrum 
and  hired  a  fellow  to  certify:  "This  is  to  certify  that  I  lost  one  of 
my  eyes  and  two  of  my  legs  in  the  late  war,  and  after  using  six  bot- 
tles of  Yacob  Straus's  medicine,  my  blind  eye  come  again,  and  so  did 
my  legs."  Openheimer  had  a  drug  store,  too,  and  a  patent  medicine, 
and  when  he  saw  the  certificate  that  Straus  had  gotten  up,  he  hired  a 
fellow  to  certify  some,  too:  "I  certify  that  I  was  unfortunately  born 
without  a  liver  or  lights,  and  suffered  untold  miseries  until  I  took  four 
Ijottles  of  Openheimer's  medicine,  and  now  I  have  as  good  a  liver  as 
anybody  and  electric  lights." 

Professor  Lane  advised  the  doctors  to  use  common  sense  in  their 
practice,  and  said  it  was  not  called  common  sense  because  it  was  com- 
mon, but  because  it  was  commonly  needed. 

Then  we  had  a  beautiful  valedictory  by  Dr.  Park,  and  the  presen- 
tation of  medals  by  Rev.  Dr.  Anderson,  and  last  of  all  the  boys 
caned  Dr.  Johnston,  and  then  the  benediction  closed  the  entertaining 
exercises.  I  was  ruminating  about  these  doctors — how  many  would 
succeed  and  how  many  wouldn't ;  how  many  would  take  to  drink  and 
go  to  the  bad ;  how  many  would  drift  away  from  parental  moorings 
and  become  agnostics,  or  skeptics,  or  infidels.  I  thought  how  much 
depended  on  their  skill  and  kindness,  and  how  the  loves  and  hopes  of 
fathers  and  mothers  were  centered  in  what  the  doctor  could  do  for  the 
child  or  some  loved  member  of  the  family.  They  say  that  doctors 
get  hardened  to  suffering.  Maybe  they  do,  but  they  ought  not  to. 
If  I  was  a  doctor,  I  would  make  a  show  of  tenderness  and  sympathy 
whether  I  felt  it  or  not.  It  goes  a  long  ways  with  the  sick  and  the 
suffering,  and  with  the  family. 

How  much  depends  upon  the  doctor's  skill  in  saving  life  can  never 
be  known,  but  a  friend  of  mine  in  New  York  told  me  that  a  very 
eminent  surgeon  said  to  him  some  years  ago :  "lam  responsible  for 
Grover  Cleveland's  election.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me  he  would  have 
been  defeated.  That  man  Burchard  who  made  the  speech  about  'Rum, 
Romanism  and  Rebellion,'  was  about  to  die  from  kidney  disease.  He 
sent  for  me  as  a  last  resort.  I  cut  him  open  in  the  back  and  took  his 
old  republican  kidney  out  and  cleaned  it  and  put  it  back  again  and 
sewed  him  up,  and  he  got  well  and  made  that  speech  that  drove  the 


308  The  Farm  and  The  Fire!^ide. 

Eoman  Catholics  away  from  Blaine  and  elected  Cleveland.  Don't  you 
see  that  if  I  had  made  a  mistake  in  my  diagnosis,  or  a  mis-cut  with 
my  knife,  Burchard  would  have  died  and  Grover  would  have  got 
left?     Eh?" 

And  there  was  that  poor  man  Garfield,  the  President,  whom  the 
doctors  killed.  An  eminent  surgeon  told  me  that  he  was  probed  to 
death.  They  hunted  for  the  ball  for  three  days,  and  bored  new  holes 
with  their  probes  until  he  was  lacerated  all  through,  and  for  no  good. 
He  said  that  pistol  balls  did  no  harm  to  stay  in  a  man ;  that  they 
became  incysted,  and  it  was  better  to  let  them  alone  than  probe  for 
them,  and  that  the  present  practice  in  London  and  Paris  was  never  to 
probe,  but  let  nature  go  to  work  at  once  to  heal  the  wound.  Garfield 
would  probably  have  lived  if  they  hadn't  probed  him,  and  if  he  had 
lived  Harrison  wouldent  have  been  president,  don't  you  see?  But  we 
can't  get  along  without  the  doctors.  They  are  our  comfort  and  our 
security  by  day  and  by  night.  They  are  our  hope  and  our  trust  in 
times  of  affliction  and  peril.  Then,  hurrah  for  the  new  doctors! 
May  they  live  long  and  prosper!  It  is  a  long  ways  to  the  goal  of 
their  ambition,  but  they  must  have  patience  if  they  would  have 
patients. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  309 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 


On  Hailstorms,  Etc. 

When  all  goes  well  humanity  is  mightily  inclined  to  be  stuck  up 
and  consequential.  Folks  strut  around  and  put  on  airs  as  though 
they  had  created  something,  and  were  the  lords  of  the  land,  and  dident 
ask  favors  of  anything  or  anybody.  I've  seen  rich  folks  sailing  about 
in  phaetons  and  looking  serene  and  complacent  and  self-satisfied,  and 
they  seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  they  made  the  gold  and  the  silver 
and  the  bonds  and  the  stocks,  when  the  truth  was  they  got  it  all  by 
gouging  and  fudging  and  taking  underholt;  not  all  of  them,  but  a 
good  many.  I've  noticed  that  the  rich  men  who  made  their  money 
honestly  are  not  the  proudest  folks  in  the  world.  It  is  generally  the 
men  who  inherit  riches  who  are  the  proudest ;  folks  who  never 
earned  an  honest  dollar  in  their  lives. 

But  I  was  thinking  how  brave  and  independent  we  all  feel  when 
there  is  nothing  to  scare  us.  Most  anybody  will  talk  big  about  ghosts 
and  graveyards  in  the  day  time,  or  even  at  night  when  sitting  by  the 
family  fireside.  Most  men  are  brave  according  to  circumstances; 
they  are  brave  when  they  have  a  chance  for  life,  and  they  are 
brave  when  they  have  good  backers.  They  are  brave  when  they 
have  time  enough  to  see  the  danger  beforehand  and  prepare 
for  it.  But  they  are  all  cowards  when  taken  by  surprise  or  over- 
whelmed all  of  a  sudden  by  some  terrible  unusual  thing,  especially 
some  power  of  nature  that  no  man  can  contend  with — cyclones  and 
storms  and  earthquakes  and  thunder  and  lightning  subdues  a  poor 
mortal  quick  and  takes  all  the  stiffning  out  of  him.  It  was  only  yes- 
terday when  the  elements  were  on  a  rampage  at  my  house,  and  the 
thunder  pealed  and  the  lightning  played  around,  and  black  and  angry 
clouds  gathered  over  us,  and  darkness  came  before  its  time,  and  the 
children  all  huddled  up  around  us  and  looked  wild,  and  the  dogs  came 
running  from  the  field,  and  the  first  thing  we  knew  somebody  threw  a 
white  rock  on  the  roof  of  the  house  and  I  saw  it  bounce  and  roll  off 


310  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

in  the  front  yard,  and  while  we  were  all  wondering  who  did  it  a 
ghower  of  them  came  down  with  a  crashing  noise,  and  we  saw  they 
were  hail  stones — stones  sure  enough — none  of  your  coriander  seed, 
but  stones  as  large  as  walnuts,  and  some  as  large  as  guinea  eggs,  and 
they  fell  as  thick  and  fast  as  rain  drops  on  a  mill  pond.  It  wasent  two 
minutes  before  the  ground  was  as  white  as  snow  and  the  hail  was 
bank'sd  up  in  piles  in  all  the  corners  and  low  places.  The  sheep  came 
running  and  bleating  from  the  meadow,  the  horses  made  tracks  for 
the  stable,  the  chickens  and  ducks  run  under  the  house.  Down, 
down  it  came  stripping  the  fruit  trees  of  their  blooms  and  tearing  the 
leaves  off  the  euonimous  bushes  and  mashing  down  the  peas  and 
onions  and  last,  but  not  least,  smashing  through  every  pane  of  glass  on 
the  flower  pit.  The  flowers  were  about  half  killed  before,  and  now 
the  wreck  is  all  complete,  and  I've  got  work  to  do  before  Mrs.  Arp 
comes  home,  so  as  to  keep  domestic  affairs  all  calm  and  serene.  The 
glass  may  go  untQ  next  fall,  for  the  plants  needed  ventilation  anyhow, 
but  I  must  get  some  more  flowers  and  fill  up  the  pots  anew. 

Just  about  the  time  when  the  storm  subsided  and  the  children  had 
begun  to  run  about  and  gather  the  big  round  hail,  I  observed  a  way- 
faring man  driving  slowly  down  the  hill  and  stop  at  my  gate.  He 
was  humped  over  nearly  double  and  had  a  long  grizzly  grey  beard 
that  looked  demoralized,  and  his  big  broad-brimmed  hat  was  all  in  a 
flop  and  hung  down  in  wet  scollops  over  his  face  and  ears  and  the 
back  of  his  neck.  He  stopped,  but  never  said  anything  and  looked 
like  he  didn't  know  where  he  come  from  nor  whither  he  was  going. 
After  a  minute,  he  ventured  to  raise  one  flop  of  his  hat  brim  and 
looked  up  at  me  as  I  stood  wondering  on  the  piazza.  He  never  called 
nor  said  good  morning,  but  raised  one  arm  and  in  a  beseeching  manner 
motioned  me  to  come.  I  hurried  down  to  his  relief,  and  found  it  was 
my  old  friend.  Col.  Hutchinson,  and  as  he  looked  piteously  at  me  from 
under  the  flops,  said:  "Major,  I'm  a  ruined  man,  I'm  beat  all  into 
doll  rags,  and  there's  a  thousand  bumps  on  my  poor  head  as  big  as 
turkey  eggs.  My  back  and  my  neck  have  been  through  a  threshing 
machine.  I'm  as  humble  as  a  dead  nigger.  I'm  the  rise  of  sixty  years 
old,  and  never  was  whipped  before.  Major,  I  want  somebody  to  pray 
for  me.  I  prayed  for  myself  awhile  ago.  I  prayed  more  in  two  min- 
utes than  I  ever  did  in  all  my  life,  and  I  prayed  harder,  and  if  the 
good  Lord  spares  me,  I'm  going  to  be  a  better  man." 


The  Farm  and  The  FiREsroE.  311 

"Why,  Colonel,"  said  I,  "where  were  you?  Did  your  horse  cut 
up  ?     Have  you  been  in  all  that  hail  ? " 

"I  have,  Major,"  said  he,  and  the  tears  came  in  his  eyes.  "It  took 
me  all  unawares  and  my  horse  got  to  raring  and  pitching,  and  I 
couldn't  get  out  of  the  buggy,  and  so  I  run  him  ujd  against  your  nabor 
Freeman's  fence,  and  he  danced  and  he  pranced  and  squatted  and 
trembled,  and  I  held  him  and  honied  him  and  prayed  all  the  time  as 
hard  as  I  could  pray,  and  the  hail-stones  popped  me  until  they  mashed 
my  hat  down  over  my  ears,  and  then  my  skull  cotch  it  hot  and  heavy, 
and  my  head  is  swelled  up  so  big  now  I  can't  get  my  hat  off." 

"Mighty  bad.  Colonel,"  said  I,  "awful  bad  for  an  old  man  like  you." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "and  it  seemed  tome  that  every  time  a  big  old 
Bockdolager  struck  me  I  could  hear  somebody  say,  '  Oh,  you  old  sinner, 
you  time  honored  sinner,  I'll  maul  the  grace  into  your  unbelieving 
soul.'" 

I  tried  to  get  the  injured  man  to  get  out  and  come  in,  but  he 
mournfully  said  "no,"  for  he  must  get  out  o' town  and  see  a  doctor 
and  a  preacher. 

But  how  long  the  colonel  will  remain  humble  I  don't  know,  for  as 
a  general  thing  a  man's  repentance  and  humility  passes  away  with  his 
trouble  and  his  danger. 

"  The  devil  was  sick,  the  devil  a  saint  would  be. 
The  devil  got  well,  the  devil  a  saint  was  he." 

Well,  the  equinox  has  come  and  gone,  and  maybe  the  spring  will 
open  now  and  let  us  farm  in  earnest;  all  we  could  do  the  last  two 
months  was  to  repair  damages  after  the  freshets  and  stay  in  the  house 
and  read.  I  took  a  notion  the  other  day  to  thin  out  my  shade  trees 
in  the  grove,  for  they  were  too  thick  and  were  so  crowded  the  limbs  of 
some  of  them  were  dying,  I've  been  wanting  to  do  it  for  a  long 
time,  but  my  wife,  Mrs.  Arp,  thinks  nearly  as  much  of  a  tree  as  she 
does  of  me,  and  whenever  I  mentioned  the  subject  there  was  a  veto, 
and  I  couldn't  pass  the  bill  over  it  by  the  proper  majority.  So  while 
she  was  away  looking 'after  her  new  grand  children,  I  cut  two  of  the 
trees  down  and  made  firewood  of  them,  and  cleaned  up  every  chip  and 
fragment,  and  put  old  dirt  where  the  stumps  were,  and  the  children 
have  all  agreed  to  make  no  sign,  and  they  have  got  up  a  bet  or  two  as 
to  whether  their  maternal  ancestor  will  miss  the  tree  or  not,  and  little 
Jessie  has  bet  her  doll  against  a  nickel  that  her  ma  will  say  something 


312  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside, 

about  the  trees  before  she  gets  out  of  the  buggy.  But  she  will  get 
reconciled  after  awhile,  especially  if  I  get  some  more  flowers.  And 
besides,  there  is  a  surprise  for  her  in  the  house,  for  the  girls  have 
painted  the  dining-room  floor  and  the  doors  and  windows  and  mantle- 
piece,  and  whitewashed  the  walls  a  pretty  straw  color,  and  painted  the 
ceiling  overhead  a  lovely  brown  to  hide  fly  specks,  and  now  they  are 
at  work  on  another  room ;  and  we  boys  are  building  a  new  front  fence 
and  making  another  terrace,  and  so,  take  it  all  in  all,  I  reckon  we  will 
all  harmonize  and  everything  be  calm  and  serene. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fuieside.  313 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


Runaway  Negroes,  Ghosts  and  Old-Time  Darkies. 

"Papa,  please  tell  us  a  story.  Tell  us  something  about  runaway 
niggers." 

I  had  almost  forgotten  that  there  ever  was  a  runaway  nigger. 
Good  gracious !  What  a  long  time  ago  it  was.  Here  is  a  whole  gener- 
ation of  people  under  thirty  years  of  age  who  know  nothing  about 
slavery.  It  is  seldom  that  we  old  folks  talk  about  it  to  our  children. 
We  tell  them  frequently  of  our  frolics  with  the  little  darkies,  and  how 
good  old  Aunt  Peggy  was  to  us,  and  how  we  used  to  hunt  with  Big 
Ben  and  Virgil  and  Uncle  Sam,  and  we  repeat  some  of  the  ghost 
stories  they  used  to  tell  us  and  all  that,  but  the  idea  of  slavery  hardly 
ever  comes  in.  These  darkies  all  belonged  to  the  family  and  just 
lived  with  us.  That  is  all.  We  were  all  bunched  together,  and  it 
was  understood  that  when  one  of  the  boys  got  married  and  set  up  for 
himself  he  was  to  have  little  Dave  and  Buck  and  black  Dan  and  Aunt 
Sally,  for  he  had  always  claimed  these  and  they  had  always  claimed 
him.  And  Miss  Tavy  had  picked  out  her  vassals  in  her  early  child- 
hood and  nobody  need  lay  any  claim  or  expectation  to  Tip  or  Sinda 
or  Beck,  for  they  were  to  be  hers  and  they  knew  it  and  were  proud  of 
it,  and  took  a  peculiar  interest  in  the  young  man  who  "come  flying 
around  Miss  Tavy."  They  even  dared  to  venture  their  counsel  and 
were  loud  in  their  praise  of  their  favorite.  This  was  right,  and  it 
was  natural,  for  while  she  was  choosing  her  lord  they  were  choosing  a 
master,  and  a  harmonious  choice  was  a  good  thing  all  around.  Old 
Aunt  Peggy  was  an  oracle  in  her  way.  She  was  little  and  old  and 
wrinkled,  and  smoked  her  pipe  in  the  chimney  corner,  and  never 
talked  much.  But  she  sat  and  swayed  backward  and  forward  and 
listened  to  the  children — the  black  and  the  white.  She  called  them 
all  children  if  they  were  under  fifty.  But  eVer  and  anon  she  would 
give  a  grunt  or  shake  her  head  and  say  "  dat  won't  do,  my  child.  Bet- 
ter mine  how  you  talk,  now;  better  mine.     I  hear  de  screech  owl  last 


314  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

night  and  he  talk  to  me,  he  did,"  and  she  would  make  up  some  mys 
terious  words  that  the  screech  owl  said.  Aunt  Peggy  believed  in 
frogs  and  lizzards  and  owls  and  bats  and  cats  and  snakes  and  jack 
o'lanterns  and  charms  and  cunjuring.  There  were  secret  mysteries 
about  them  all,  and  they  had  to  be  propitiated  and  kept  amiable  or 
some  great  harm  would  come  upon  the  household.  Where  the  old 
negroes  got  all  this  superstitious  lore  nobody  knows  exactly,  but  it  is 
not  confined  to  them.  There  have  been  just  such  superstitions  in  all 
ages  and  countries.  Macbeth  consulted  the  witches  and  they  made 
their  charms  by  seething  that  horrible  gruel  made  of  frogs  and  lizzards 
and  owls  and  bats  and  and  adders'  tongues  and  goats'  gall  and  a 
Turk's  nose  and  a  Tartar's  lips  and  other  unpalatable  things,  and  then 
cooled  it  down  and  settled  it  with  a  baboon's  blood.  Those  old-time 
negroes  would  have  made  splendid  witches  if  there  had  been  any 
witch  school  to  go  to.  It  suited  their  nature,  and  it  suits  it  yet.  As 
a  race,  they  delight  in  the  marvelous  when  it  is  mixed  up  with  the 
horrible.  Old  Uncle  Sam  was  a  good  old  darkey  and  the  children 
loved  him.  He  was  familiar  with  spirits  and  graveyards,  and  had 
shook  hands  with  Rawhead  and  Bloodybones,  and  when  freedom  came 
he  gave  full  play  to  his  fancies  and  got  him  a  little  long-eared  donkey 
and  a  pair  of  spectacles  and  rode  from  cabin  to  cabin  by  day  and  by 
night,  calling  himself  "  Doctor  Sam,"  and  professing  to  cure  all  diseases 
of  his  race  by  the  mysterious  art  of. cunjuring.  He  carried  his  profes- 
sional outfit  in  an  old  greasy  sack  before  him,  and  he  was  the  most 
ludicrous  burlesque  upon  the  medical  profession  ever  seen,  I  reckon. 
I  would  give  five  dollars  for  a  photograph  of  the  whole  concern  as  it 
used  to  slowly  perambulate  the  Chattahoochee  region  of  old  Gwinnett 
some  twenty  years  ago.  I  prevailed  on  the  old  gentleman  once  to  let 
me  see  the  inside  of  that  bag  and  take  an  inventory.  Besides  nearly 
everything  that  Shakespeare  named,  he  had  every  curious  bug  he 
could  find.  Betty  bugs  and  June  bugs  and  tumble  bugs,  and  the 
devil's  riding  horse,  and  the  devil's  darning  needle,  and  a  green  snake, 
and  a  thousandleg,  and  a  lot  of  herbs,  such  as  hemlock  and  jimpson 
weed  and  snake  root.  He  assured  me  that  he  had  to  use  all  these 
things  in  the  very  bad  cases  he  came  across  in  his  extensive  practice. 
But  the  children  wanted  a  story  about  runaway  niggers.  Well,  I 
never  saw  a  runaway  nigger.  That  is,  while  he  was  a  runaway.  I 
have  seen  them  after  they  were  caught  or  come  in   of  their  own 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  315 

accord.  We  boys  and  girls  used  to  be  awfully  afraid  of  them.  They 
were  classed  among  our  very  worst  boogers,  such  as  bears  and  pan- 
thers and  Indians  and  ghosts.  Children  were  always  on  the  lookout 
for  one  when  they  were  going  through  lonely  woods.  Sometimes  we 
found  a  hogbed  where  an  old  sow  had  littered  her  pigs,  and  we  pro- 
nounced it  a  runaway's  bed,  and  got  away  from  there  with  celerity. 
They  were  very  scarce  in  that  region.  I  do  not  remember  but  one 
and  he  was  suddenly  cured  of  his  propensity,  for  when  he  came  back 
home  his  master  run  him  off  again  and  made  him  stay  in  the  woods 
until  he  was  properly  humbled  and  begged  to  stay  at  home.  I  never 
thought  that  I  should  have  a  runaway  nigger,  but  I  did.  Our  col- 
ored household  were,  as  I  thought,  devoted  to  us,  and  I  knew  that  we 
were  devoted  to  them.  Our  maid-servant,  Mary,  had  nursed  all  our 
first  children,  and  they  loved  her.  A  neighboring  gentleman  owned 
her  husband,  and  as  he  was  a  high-strung  darkey,  they  did  not  get  along 
harmoniously.  One  night  he  took  to  the  woods,  or  somewhere  else 
unknown,  and  he  stayed  there.  In  course  of  time  his  master  got  tired 
of  this  and  offered  a  reward,  but  the  reward  did  not  seem  to  catch 
him.  The  police  frequented  my  premises  by  night,  for  they  suspected 
that  Mary  harbored  him,  and  so  did  I,  but  still  Anderson  could  not 
be  found.  I  didn't  like  the  darkey,  but  Mary  was  faithful  and  kind, 
and  she  begged  me  with  tears  to  buy  Anderson.  So  I  interviewed  his 
master  and  bought  him — bought  him  in  the  woods,  and  that  night 
when  I  went  home  and  told  Mary  that  Anderson  was  mine  she  clapped 
her  hands  with  joy,  and  went  out  hurridly  and  in  ten  minutes  came 
back  with  Anderson,  who  was  smiling  and  fat  with  his  long  rest  under 
the  fodder  in  my  stable  loft. 

It  was  about  two  months  after  this  that  the  foul  invaders  run  us 
out  of  Kome.  It  was  about  midnight  when  I  aroused  the  servants 
and  told  them  that  I  was  going,  and  their  mistress  was  going,  and  the 
children  were  going,  and  they  could  all  do  as  they  pleased.  With  one 
accord  they  declared  they  would  follow  us  to  the  end  of  the  earth,  and 
80  we  fled  together  and  camped  out  together,  and  Mary  had  our  baby 
in  her  arms,  and  when  we  reached  Atlanta  our  teams  and  servants 
camped  on  the  suburbs  while  we  went  into  the  city  to  more  friendly 
quarters.  Next  morning  Mary  and  Anderson  were  gone.  They  had 
run  away  in  the  night  and  returned  to  Rome.  Well,  I  couldn't  blame 
them,  for  Anderson  was  not  attached  to  me,  and  he  longed  for  free- 


316  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

dom,  and  he  persuaded  Mary  to  go.  That  was  all  of  it — no,  not  all, 
for  when  we  got  back  to  Rome,  in  1865,  they  were  there,  and  Mary 
"was  repentant  and  came  to  us  for  protection  again.  Her  husband  had 
joined  the  army,  and  when  the  army  left  he  ran  away  from  them  and 
lost  his  pension  and  his  bounty,  and  later  on  he  ran  away  from  Mary 
and  I  don't  know  where  he  is  now.  But  Tip,  the  faithful  Tippecanoe, 
would  not  leave  me.  I  did  not  own  his  family,  but  he  left  them  on  that 
dark,  unhappy  night  and  followed  us  to  Atlanta,  and  in  a  few  days  I 
made  him  go  back  to  take  care  of  things  and  see  after  the  welfare  of 
his  wile  and  children.  To  keep  from  being  suspected  as  a  spy  he,  too, 
joined  the  colored  regiment  as  a  cook  and  stayed  a  few  days,  and  one 
dark  night  he  swam  the  Oustanaula  river  and  went  down  the  western 
bank  of  the  Coosa  about  ten  miles  and  swam  that  river,  and  by  a  cir- 
cuitous route  reached  Atlanta  in  safety  and  followed  our  fortunes  until 
the  war  was  over.  Well,  those  were  the  only  runaways  I  ever  had. 
Two  ran  away  from  me  to  the  yankees,  and  one  ran  away  from  the 
yankees  to  get  to  me.  Mr.  Lincoln's  proclamation  was  nothing  to 
Tip.  Tip  was  with  me  in  Virginia.  Tip  was  always  faithful  and 
affectionate.  Tip  deserves  a  pension  from  somebody,  and  I  wish  I 
was  able  to  give  him  one.  But  Tip  knows  there  is  a  home  for  him  at 
my  house  whenever  he  is  homeless.  There  are  thousands  of  white 
men  Vi^hose  chances  for  heaven  are  not  so  good  as  Tip's. 
"Kun,  nigger,  run,  de  'pat-roller'  catch  you; 
Eun,  nigger,  run,  you  better  get  away." 
They  used  to  sing  that  song  and  pick  the  music  on  the  banjo.  They 
used  to  dodge  and  flank  the  patrol  like  the  smugglers  or  the  moon- 
shiners dodge  the  revenue  laws.  They  enjoyed  the  peril  of  it,  and 
sometimes  would  go  on  a  night  excursion  without  a  pass  rather  than 
ask  for  one.  If  they  planned  to  rob  a  hen-roost  or  an  orchard  or  a 
watermelon  patch,  it  was  better  to  have  no  pass,  so  as  to  prove  an 
alibi.  "Let  Dick  pass  to  his  wife's  house  at  Jim  Dunlap's  and  stay 
till  Monday  morning."  That  was  Dick's  passport  and  protection,  but 
Dick  must  keep  in  the  road,  and  not  go  skylarking  over  the  settle- 
ment. Nevertheless,  the  petty  stealing  would  happen,  and  so  a  law 
was  passed  making  it  a  crime  for  a  white  man  to  buy  chickens  or  pro- 
duce from  a  negro  without  an  order  from  his  master.  My  uncle 
bought  ten  chickens  from  a  darkey  one  Saturday  night  and  they  hap- 
pened to  be  stolen,  and  the  fellow  Avho  lost  them  reported  it  to  the 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  317 

■grand  jury,  and  those  chickens  cost  my  uncle  twenty-five  dollars.  If 
they  had  not  been  stolen  it  would  have  been  all  right' and  no  harm 
done.  The  negroes  stole  little  things  then  just  like  they  do  now. 
They  enjoyed  it.  It  was  their  nature.  They  were  not  hungry.  I 
have  known  them  to  rob  an  orchard  and  give  the  fruit  away.  The 
best  negro  would  carry  something  contraband  to  his  wife's  house  Sat- 
urday night  if  he  could  get  it.  But  the  clever,  industrious  negroes 
had  no  fear  of  the  pati-ol.  The  patrol  knew  all  in  their  beat  and 
never  asked  a  good  negro  for  his  pass.  The  patrol  was  made  up  of 
the  best  citizens  in  the  naborhood,  and  they  took  it  time  about  in 
doing  night  duty  in  their  own  vicinity.  When  thieving  got  bad  they 
went  out  frequently  and  raised  a  big  racket  and  the  mean  darkies 
caught  it  bad.  But  when  everything  was  quiet  they  would  not  go  out 
once  a  month.  Sometimes  the  darkies  made  narrow  escapes  and  would 
jump  the^-back  window  when  they  spied  the  patrol  coming,  and  then 
the  race  was  to  the  swift,  sure  enough,  and  the  old  song  came  in: 
"  Eun,  nigger,  run,  de  '  pat-roller'  catch  you  I  " 
^lany  a  good  story  have  they  told  us  boys  how  they  fooled  the 
patrol  and  got  away.  It  was  more  of  a  frolic  than  a  fear,  and  one 
success  made  them  bold  and  ready  for  another.  Such  was  negro  life 
in  our  young  days;  and  it  wasn't  so  bad,  so  very  bad,  after  all. 


318  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 


The  Candy-Pulling. 

"What's  all  this  rumpus  about?"  I  came  home  to  dinner  and 
found  the  house  full  and  yard  full  of  children,  grandchildren  and 
other  children.  "Oh,  nothing  much,"  said  Mrs.  Arp.  "I  prom- 
ised them  a  little  party  and  they  have  come  over  to  spend  the  day, 
and  brought  some  little  friends  with  them." 

"Well,  but  these  door-knobs  are  all  stuck  up  with  candy."  "Yes, 
they  had  a  candy  pulling,  and,  I  expect,  have  messed  up  things  just 
like  children  will.     I  will  wipe  off  the  door-knobs." 

' '  Well,  but  here  I've  gone  and  set  down  on  a  lump  of  it  in  this 
chair." 

Mrs.  Arp  smiled  and  said :  ' '  Well,  there's  the  washbowl  and 
a  rag." 

I  meandered  out  in  the  piazza  and  found  candy  knee  deep  in  every- 
thing. The  chaps  were  in  the  back  yard  cooking  dinner  on  a  little 
brick  furnace  they  had  built.  Some  were  toting  water  and  some 
bringing  wood,  and  they  had  potatoes  and  rice  and  eggs  and  butter 
and  pepper  and  everything  they  could  beg  from  the  cook.  The 
waterspout  was  running  all  over  everything.  I  stopped  that  part  of 
it  and  surrendered  to  the  rest,  and  retired  to  my  accustomed  seat  at 
my  desk. 

"Who  has  been  here  projecting  with  my  pens  and  letter  pads,  and 
turned  over  my  inkstand  and  messed  up  my  papers?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  reckon  they  have  hurt  anything.  Rosa  wanted  to 
show  me  how  she  was  learning  to  write.  There  was  very  little  ink  in 
the  stand.     I  wiped  off  all  she  spilt." 

I  got  up  and  walked  in  the  garden,  as  King  Ahasuerus  did,  to  let 
my  choler  down,  and  I  found  where  they  had  been  picking  peas  and 
broke  the  twine  that  held  the  vines  up,  (I  always  stick  my  peas  with 
twine),  and  so  I  came  out  of  the  garden  to  let  my  choler  down  some- 
where else.     I  looked  all  round  for  the  children  to  give  them  a  bless- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  319 

ing,  but  they  had  become  alarmed,  for  Mrs.  Arp  had  told  them  to 
run  and  hide.  "I'll  wear  them  out,"  said  I.  "I'll  wear  them  out, 
big  and  little,  old  and  young.  I'm  awful  mad.  I'm  as  mad  as  a 
mad  bull.  Broke  down  my  pea  vines ! "  And  I  mocked  a  bull  and 
pawed  dirt.  The  chaps  had  run  up  the  ladder  and  got  on  the  shed 
roof  of  the  house,  and  as  I  pranced  and  bellowed  around  they  smoth- 
ered their  laughter  until  I  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  they  turned 
loose  in  full  chorus.  I  found  the  buggy  pulled  out  of  the  shed  and 
the  whip  gone,  and  the  calf  was  tied  up  in  the  back  lot  with  a  saddle 
on,  so  I  took  my  seat  in  the  front  piazza  and  put  my  feet  on  the  rail- 
ing and  ruminated.  My  thoughts  carried  me  away  back  to  my  child- 
hood when  I  took  delight  in  such  things,  and  the  whole  picture  came 
before  me  like  the  turning  of  a  kaleidoscope.  What  a  pity  that  folks 
can't  be  as  happy  as  when  they  are  children.  About  this  time  Mrs. 
Arp  came  out  with  a  bundle  of  stuff  and  remarked  that  she  brought 
home  some  pinks  and  chrysanthemums  that  must  be  planted  out. 
"Are  you  doing  any  thing  ?"  said  she.  "I  am  ruminating,"  said  I, 
solemnly.  "Well,  you  had  better  ruminate  around  for  the  garden 
hoe,  and  I'll  help  you  put  them  out — your  back  needs  exercise." 

I  was  picking  peas  the  other  morning,  and  as  they  were  of  the  low 
kind,  I  had  to  bend  over  smartly,  and  by  and  by  when  I  tried  to 
straighten  up,  I  couldn't  straighten.  There  was  a  hitch  and  a  pain  in 
my  veins — the  same  old  trouble  I  had  once  before  when  I  worked  in 
the  water  half  a  day  damming  up  the  branch  to  make  a  wash  hole  for 
tfhe  children — so  I  hurried  from  the  garden  to  the  house  half  bent  and 
made  my  usual  fuss  for  help  and  sympathy.  I  was  down  for  two  days, 
and  took  medicine  and  chicken  soup,  and  they  put  a  bellydona  plaster 
on  my  back  as  big  as  a  letter  pad,  and  it  is  there  yet,  and  I'm  not 
well,  by  a  long  shot  but  my  folks  seem  to  think  I  am.  If  I  get  up 
and  creep  to  town,  they  put  me  to  work  as  soon  as  I  get  back.  I 
used  to  have  boys  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  to  wait  upon  me  and  do  my 
bidding,  but  they  have  all  grown  up  and  left  me  but  one,  and  he  is 
at  school,  and  when  he  isn't,  he  is  off"  somewhere  at  baseball  or  tennis 
or  picnicing  around.     I  am  the  boy  now — the  waiting  boy. 

I  was  ruminating,  but  I  found  the  hoe  and  dug  around  according  to 
orders.  Last  night  at  the  supper  table  Mrs.  Arp  remarked,  as  she  was 
making  the  coffee,  that  to-day  was  another  anniversary.  I  thought  she 
meant  a  birthday,  for  they  seem  to  come  about  once  a  week  in  the 


320  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

family,  and  she  always  wants  to  make  a  little  present  of  some  sort — 
a  spoon,  or  napkin  ring,  or  sleeve  buttons,  or  something.  I  tell  you 
what  is  a  fact — where  there  are  ten  or  a  dozen  children  in  a  family  to 
start  on  and  they  grow  up  and  get  married  and  multiply  and  replen- 
ish, and  the  posterity  keeps  on  getting  "more  thicker,  more  denser," 
as  Cobe  says,  and  the  maternal  ancestor  is  a  large-hearted  woman, 
these  birthday  gifts  and  wedding  presents  will  keep  the  old  man's  sur- 
plus down  as  effectually  as  the  Republican  party  keeps  it  down  in  the 
United  States  Treasury.  It  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  I  never 
saw  a  mother  with  a  numerous  flock  of  lovely  offspring  but  what  she 
wanted  a  big  house  and  a  bushel  of  money.  My  wife  is  always  scratch- 
ing around  hunting  np  something  for  the  children.  She  reminds  me 
of  an  old  hen  Avith  a  brood  of  young  chickens,  always  a-clucking  and 
scratching — and  she  says  that  I  remind  her  of  the  old  rooster  who 
every  now  and  then  finds  a  bug  or  a  worm  and  makes  a  big  fuss  and 
calls  up  the  little  chicks,  and  just  before  they  get  there  he  gobbles  it 
up  himself. 

No,  she  didn't  mean  a  birthday.  She  said  that  twenty-seven  years 
ago  to-day  we  were  running  from  the  foul  invader  as  fast  as  our 
good  horse  and  a  rockaway  could  carry  us.  "Just  about  this  time," 
said  she,  "we  were  hurrying  across  Euharlee  bridge  and  I  trembled 
all  over  for  fear  it  would  break  in  two,  for  it  vibrated  up  and  down  to 
old  Buckner's  heavy  trot,  but  you  never  slackened  up  a  bit,  and  Ave 
fairly  flew  through  old  Van  Wert,  and  took  the  mountain  road  until 
we  got  to  Mr.  Whitehead's,  about  dark." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  we  stayed  all  night  there,  and  they  did  the 
best  they  could  for  all  the  runnagees,  but  they  dident  have  room  for 
the  men  folks,  and  we  slept  out  doors  under  the  Avagon  shed,  and  the 
fleas  kept  us  so  lively  that  we  got  up  in  the  night  and  run  through  the 
bushes  to  brush  them  off,  just  like  cattle  do  Avhen  the  flies  are  after 
them." 

"And  the  next  morning  about  daylight,"  said  she,  "the  news  came 
that  the  yankees  Avere  coming,  and  we  started  up  that  long  mountain, 
and  it  did  seem  to  me  that  we  never  would  get  to  the  top.  It  must 
have  been  three  or  four  miles  up,  and  we  felt  pretty  safe  then  and 
stopped  aAvhile  to  rest,  and  then  Ave  scooted  aAvay  to  Dallas  and  rested 
there  for  dinner,  and  that  night  we  camped  out  someAvhere  near  Poav- 
der  Springs.     The  wagon  and  our  tent  and  baggage  kept  up  pretty 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  321 

well,  but  Ave  found  out  we  dident  have  anything  to  cook  in  except  a 
coffee  pot." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  I,  "and  we  sent  Tip  off  to  a  little  fiirm 
house  to  borrow  a  skillet,  and  he  came  back  without  it  and  said  the 
old  woman  told  him  the  old  man  was  washin'  his  feet  in  it,  and  we 
would  have  to  wait  until  he  got  through.  She  said  his  feet  had  sores 
on  'em,  and  the  dishwater  was  powerful  good  for  sores.  Tip  tried 
another  place  and  got  a  skillet  that  wasn't  so  popular." 

"And  next  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Arp,  "we  stopped  to  get  some 
water  at  a  house,  and  the  well  was  in  the  front  yard,  and  it  was 
locked  with  a  chain  and  a  padlock,  and  they  wouldn't  let  us  have  a 
drop,  and  you  gave  the  woman  10  cents  for  a  cupful  for  the  baby. 
Oh,  it  was  just  awful." 

"I  believe,"  said  I,  "that  we  had  about  seven  children  then." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh,  "poor  little  half-starved  things." 

' '  Why,  they  enjoyed  it,"  said  I.  ' '  They  thought  it  was  a  big  frolic, 
and  that  we  were  running  a  race  with  Joe  Johnston,  trying  to  see  who 
would  beat  to  Atlanta." 

"Stella  was  the  baby  then,"  said  my  wife,  looking  at  her  earnestly, 
"a  little  fretful,  black-eyed  baby,  and  now  she  is  sitting  here,  a  mother, 
with  a  child  of  her  own  that  is  so  much  like  Avhat  she  was  then  that 
sometimes  I  imagine  the  child  is  mine,  and  I  am  getting  ready  to  make 
a  new  run  from  the  yankees." 

"May  the  foul  invaders  live  long,  when  the  devil  gets  them,"  said 
I.  "They  kept  you  trotting,  and  you  bore  it  like  a  heroine;  you  have 
Been  a  good  deal  of  troublous  life,  and  I'm  thankful  that  now  your 
days  are  calm  and  serene." 


}22  The  Fakm  and  The  Flreslde. 


CHAPTER    LXVII. 


Family  Reform. 

Nature  can  beat  art  sometimes.  I've  been  to  the  theatre  afore  now, 
and  the  players  acted  the  play  so  natural  and  sympathetic  that  I  got 
all  tangled  up  and  excited,  and  would  cry  or  laugh  just  as  they  did; 
but  nature  can  beat  art  sometimes.  Just  about  sundown,  the  other 
evening,  while  we  were  all  sitting  in  the  piazza,  calm  and  serene, 
there  was  a  wild  shriek  down  at  the  corner  of  the  garden,  and  it  was 
Carl  calling,  and  he  said:  "Run  here  to  Linton!  Linton  is  killed! 
Run,  papa;  run,  somebody;"  and  we  did  run,  and  Mrs.  Arp  and  the 
girls  cried,  "Oh,  mercy!  Oh,  good  Lord!"  and  all  sorts  of  interjec- 
tions and  conjunctions  at  every  step,  and  there  was  a  wild  and  fearful 
panic  when  we  got  to  the  boy,  and  he  was  lying  pale  and  senseless  on 
the  rocky  ground,  with  a  big  limb  across  his  breast.  He  had  fallen 
about  twelve  feet  from  the  top  of  a  venerable  apple  tree  that  they 
say  was  planted  by  the  Indians  about  sixty  years  ago.  I  heaved  the 
old  broken  limb  oif  of  the  boy  and  took  him  in  my  arms,  and  then  up 
the  hill  to  the  house,  and  my  escort,  oh,  my  escort!  with  their  cries 
and  screams,  demoralized  me  fearfully.  He  was  a  stout  lad  of  thu-- 
teen,  this  grandson  of  ours,  and  as  tough  as  a  pine-knot,  and  I  knew 
he  was  hurt,  badly  hurt,  but  I  can  always  keep  calm  and  serene  on 
such  occasions,  if  the  women  will  let  me.  Laying  him  gently  on  the 
bed,  Mrs.  Arp  ripped  his  garments  with  trembling  hands  and  moth- 
erly sobbings  to  find  the  flowing  blood  and  the  gaping  wounds  and 
the  broken  limbs,  but  they  were  not  there.  He  was  shocked  and 
senseless,  and  breathed  hard  and  gurgled  in  his  throat,  and  groaned 
and  sighed,  but  I  had  seen  those  signs  before  with  the  other  boys,  and 
had  faith.  And  sure  enough,  in  about  an  hour  he  came  to  himself, 
and  looking  around  upon  the  excited  family,  asked  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, and  said:  "Grandma,  I  dreamed  I  was  falling  from  the  apple 
tree."  The  doctor  came  about  that  time  and  found  his  arm  and 
shoulder  badly  bruised  and  one  rib  hurt,  perhaps  fractured,  and  said 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  323 

be  would  be  awful  sore  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  get  well  and  be 
ready  for  the  next  skirmish.  But  Mrs.  Arp  was  not  satisfied,  and 
watched  him  all  night,  and  as  he  slept  she  listened  to  his  breathing 
and  felt  his  pulse  and  imagined  that  something  was  internally  wrong. 
The  boy  carries  his  arm  in  a  handkerchief  now,  and  can't  go  in  a 
washing  nor  shoot  a  sling  nor  climb  a  tree,  and  he  and  Carl  have  to 
^tay  in  the  house  and  read  story  books  and  look  at  the  pictures.  But 
the  like  of  this  has  to  happen.  It  is  part  of  a  boy's  raising.  I 
wasent  much  account  until  I  fell  down  a  ladder  head  foremost  and 
was  picked  up  for  dead.  I  told  my  wife  I  wouldent  give  a  cent  for  a 
boy  who  had  never  fell  out  of  an  apple,  tree  or  got  his  arm  broke,  or 
his  head  gashed,  or  something  of  the  kind.  If  a  man  has  never  had 
any  narrow  escapes,  or  any  wounds,  or  any  broken  bones,  or  been 
thrown  from  a  horse  and  picked  up  for  dead,  what  kind  of  a  father 
will  he  be?  What  has  he  got  to  tell  his  little  boy,  and  excite  his  won- 
der and  admiration?  I  had  lots  of  mishaps  myself,  and  as  I  grow 
older  Mrs.  Arp  says  they  grow  bigger  and  more  nujnerous.  Well,  of 
course !  Nobody  wants  to  tell  the  same  old  thing  the  same  old  way  a 
thousand  times.  Amplification  is  a  sign  of  genius.  Being  knocked 
■down  and  addled  is  a  big  thing ;  but  to  be  picked  up  for  dead  is 
heroic. 

I've  got  these  children  to  watch  now.  Mrs.  Arp  has  gone  to 
Tisit  her  old  home  in  Gwinnett,  and  she  gave  me  a  whole  cata- 
logue of  admonitions  and  ordinations  and  recapitulations,  which  I've 
forgotten  already.  She  has  gone  to  see  her  brothers  and  their  wives 
and  childi'en,  and  the  dear  old  home  where  her  father  and  mother 
used  to  wear  the  parental  crown,  and  had  more  love  and  more  power 
than  a  king.  What  a  sacred  temple  was  that  old  family  room.  It 
was  the  court  where  she  brought  all  her  childish  troubles  and  got 
comfort.  She  remembers  every  nail  in  the  floor,  every  brick  in  the 
hearth,  every  knot  in  the  ceiling  overhead.  She  wanted  to  see  the 
big  old  oaks  in  the  back  yard,  under  whose  shades  she  played  and 
swung  and  had  her  playhouse  of  broken  china.  The  cooing  pigeons 
made  love  upon  their  spreading  limbs  by  day,  and  the  noisy  katydids 
by  night.  She  wanted  to  see  the  big  old  spring  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  for  she  knew  there  was  no  change,  no  decay,  no  mortality  there. 
The  water  is  still  running,  and  though  the  frog  and  the  craw-fish  and 
the  spring-lizzard  that  used  to  excite  her  youthful  fears,  have  departed 


324  The  Farm  and  The  Fireshje. 

this  life  intestate,  they  left  children  to  inherit  and  enjoy  that  peaceful, 
shady  spring.  The  little  branch  still  flows  on  over  its  gravelly  bed 
and  down  into  the  little  fish  pond  below,  and  the  ripple  of  its  waters 
still  sings  that  same  old  song — 

"  For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever." 

I  know  that  her  memory  will  linger  there  sweetly,  for  she  used  to 
wade  in  that  branch,  and  she  would  like  to  wade  in  it  again  if  nobody 
was  looking,  but  I  reckon  she  Avon't.  There  is  a  'simmon  tree  on  the 
hill  close  by  that  she  used  to  climb  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  for  she  was 
as  fond  of  'simmons  as  a  'possum,  but  she  will  never  clinb  it  any  more ; 
I  reckon  she  won't.  The  grape  vine  swing  at  the  back  of  the  garden 
and  the  saplings  she  used  to  bend  down  and  ride  are  gone — all  gone ; 
but  she  doesn't  want  to  ride  saplings  now.  Old  Aunt  Peggy  has 
gone,  too;  gone  where  the  good  darkies  go.  She  was  always  old  and 
wrinkled  and  dried  up,  but  she  was  faithful  unto  death,  and  the 
children  loved  her.  Nobody  knew  how  old  she  was.  For  forty  con- 
secutive years  she  said  she  was  a  hundred — no  more,  no  less — always 
a  hundred.  But,  dearest  of  all,  is  the  old  grave-yard,  where  "the 
rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep."  I  know  she  will  linger  there 
with  sweet  and  sad  emotions,  for  there  sleep  her  nearest  and  dearest 
ones — father  and  mother  and  brothers  and  an  only  sister,  and,  sweetest 
of  all,  a  dear  little  babe  of  her  own.  How  surely  does  life  and  love 
repeat  the  scenes  of  our  youth.  Hers  were  fond  parents,  and  there 
was  a  flock  of  children,  fair  children,  all  hopeful  and  happy  and 
loving,  and  they  were  ten— just  ten.  She  and  I  have  succeeded 
them,  and  we  have  ten — just  ten,  We,  too,  have  a  cottage  home  and 
a  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  a  branch  for  the  children  to  play 
in,  and  a  fish  pond,  and  big  oaks  with  pigeons  cooing  on  the  limbs. 
Just  as  they  had,  we  have  pea-fowls  to  scream,  and  ducks  and 
chickens,  and  sheep,  and  cattle,  and  dogs'  bark  and  cats'  purr,  and 
our  children  and  grandchildren  come  and  go;  and  by  and  by  we 
will  go  to  sleep  and  leave  them  all  alone,  just  as  we  were  left. 

And  this  is  right— all  right.  When  we  have  served  our  day  and 
generation,  then  let  us  go.  Let  us  marshal  them  the  way  of  life,  and 
give  good  counsel,  and  retire  in  peace  and  Christian  hope  of  a  reunion. 
Not  a  reunion  like  the  soldiers  have — that  comes  every  year,  with 
diminished  numbers — but  a  reunion  in  a  better  land  that  grows  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  325 

grows  to  countless  legions,  and  every  year  brings  new  recruits  from 
kindred  and  from  friends.  How  often  do  I  sit  in  reverie  when  I  hear 
of  a  good  parent's,  death  and  dream  I  hear  the  glad  voices  of  those 
who  have  gone  before,  as  they  bring  tidings  of  each  other  and  say, 
"Our  father  has  come,"  "Our  mother  has  come  at  last."  What  a 
welcome  to  the  orphan  when  the  angel  mother  gives  the  warm 
embrace  and  says,  "My  child,  my  child!  God  bless  my  child!' 
Some  folks  don't  believe  in  this,  but  I  do, 

I'm  going  to  wallop  these  boys  if  they  don't  mind.  I've  humored 
and  indulged  them  until  they  think  there  is  no  willipus  wallipus  on 
the  plantation.  They  slipped  off  and  went  in  a-washing  this  evening 
about  four  o'clock,  when  the  sun  was  as  hot  as  blazes.  I  had  promised 
them  they  might  go  in  late,  when  the  shadows  of  the  willows  had 
covered  the  pond,  and  now  they  say  they  misunderstood  me.  Their 
backs  are  nearly  blistered,  and  I've  a  good  mind  to  blister  them  a 
little  lower  down.  I  would  have  done  it,  but  Linton  has  a  lame  arm 
and  Carl  was  running  at  the  nose.  I  see  a  lame  guinea  hopping 
around,  and  it  hops  very  like  a  slingshot  struck  it.  They  killed  a 
pigeon  not  long  ago,  and  said  they  didn't  mean  to  hit  it,  but  was  just 
trying  to  see  how  close  they  could  miss  it.  I  found  my  first  and  big- 
gest melon  plugged  in  the  patch,  and,  though  I  didn't  believe  they 
would  do  me  that  mean,  I  held  a  courtmartial  and  took  testimony  and 
looked  as  fierce  and  majestic  as  possible.  They  declared  their  inno- 
cence and  showed  a  heap  of  wounded  feelings  and  told  how  they 
found  our  little  darkey's  knife  in  the  melon  patch,  and  so  the  little 
darkey  surrendered  and  confessed,  which  never  was  done  by  a  darkey 
before,  and  his  mother  whipped  him  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  my 
boys  were  discharged  with  honor  and  the  commendation  of  the  court. 
Carl  is  a  very  good  boy  by  himself,  and  Linton  is  good  by  himself. 
Each  of  them  work  well  in  single  harness,  but  hitch  them  together  to 
a  wagon  and  they  are  bound  to  break  something.  I'm  going  for  these 
chaps  while  Mrs.  Arp  is  away.  I'm  for  civil  service  reform  now. 
Their  mothers  are  afar  off  and  I'm  the  autocrat.  I'll  teach  them  liow 
to  grabble  the  goobers  before  they  are  ripe. 

No,  I  won't,  either,  and  they  know  I  won't.  These  boys  are 
mighty  good  to  me.  They  bring  me  fresh  water  from  the  spring 
without  being  told.  They  black  my  shoes  when  I  am  going  to  town. 
They  follow  me  around  the  farm  and  help  me  get  roasting  ears.    They 


326  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

listen  to  my  marvelous  stories  with  an  affectionate  wonder  that  flatters 
my  vanity.  They  borrow  my  pocket-knife.  They  find  my  hat  and 
my  walking-stick,  and  help  me  dig  the  potatoes  for  dinner.  They  are 
good  company,  these  boys,  now  that  Jessie  has  gone.  I  miss  "Jessie, 
the  flower  of  Dumblane."  She  is  my  special  comfort  when  I  am 
ailing  or  have  the  blues.  She  rubs  my  head  and  brushes  my  back 
hair  and  talks  so  loving  and  kind,  and  always  kisses  me  good-night 
after  she  has  said  her  prayers. 

Mrs.  Arp  will  go  to  meeting  Sunday.  The  same  old  church  is 
there  close  by  her  old  home — the  church  she  was  raised  in  and  where 
she  went  to  class-meeting,  and  heard  old  Fathers  Murphey  and  Ivy 
and  Norton  talk.  The  church  where  Judge  Longstieet  used  to  preach 
at  quarterly  meetings — Judge  Longstreet  who  used  to  distress  old 
Uncle  Allan  Turner,  a  good  old  man,  because  the  judge  would  play 
on  the  fiddle  and  flute,  and  wrote  some  unheavenly  stories  in  the 
Georgia  Scenes.  Both  of  these  notable  men  always  found  welcome  at 
her  father's  house,  and  while  the  judge  was  discoursing  sweet  music 
in  the  parlor,  old  father  Turner  was  walking  the  piazza,  interceding  in 
silent  prayer  for  his  forgiveness  and  reform.  There  were  never  two 
Christian  men  more  unlike  than  they,  but  they  are  both  in  heaven 
now,  and  maybe  Uncle  Allan  has  got  reconciled  to  music.  We  are 
all  a  bundle  of  prejudices,  as  well  as  habits,  and  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  the  age  in  which  we  live  to-day  is  more  tolerant  that  the  last. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  327 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 


Music. 


Music  is  the  only  employment  that  is  innocent  and  refining,  and  that 
cannot  be  indulged  in  to  excess.  It  stands  by  itself  as  the  peculiar 
gift  of  God.  It  is  the  only  art  that  is  alike  common  to  angels  and  to 
men.  It  has  a  wonderful  compass  and  variety,  and  yet  from  the 
grandest  to  the  simplest,  it  is  all  pleasing  and  all  innocent.  Every 
other  pleasure  can  be  carried  to  dissipation,  but  not  music. 

The  highest  order  of  music  is  that  which  we  never  hear,  but  only 
read  about  and  wonder.  It  is  called  the  music  of  the  spheres — the 
grand  symphony  that  is  made  by  the  planets  and  other  heavenly  bodies 
coursing  around  the  sun,  and  which  Milton  says  is  heard  only  by  God 
and  the  angels.  I  don't  suppose  that  such  creatures  as  we  are,  afflicted 
and  limited  with  original  sin,  could  bear  that  kind  of  music.  The  child 
that  is  charmed  with  a  lullaby  or  soothed  to  sleep  with  "Hush,  my 
dear,  lie  still  and  slumber,"  would  be  frightened  at  an  oratorio  from 
Handel.     But  musical  taste  is  progressive,  like  every  other  good  thing. 

The  time  was  when  I  thought  "Billy  in  the  low  grounds,"  and 
"Bonaparte  crossing  the  Rhine,"  perfectly  splendid,  but  I  don't  now. 
I  have  advanced  to  a  higher  grade.  By  degrees  the  children  have 
educated  me,  and  as  they  climb  up,  I  climb  a  little,  too.  Time  was 
when  I  thought  "Kathleen  Mavourneen"  the  sweetest  song,  and  my 
wife,  whom  I  was  courting,  the  sweetest  singer  in  the  world.  But  I 
don't  now — that  is,  I  mean  the  song.  There  are  sweeter  songs.  I 
don't  wish  to  be  misunderstood  about  the  singer.  No  doubt  her  voice 
has  the  same  alluring,  ensnaring,  angelic,  elysian  sweetness  it  had  forty 
years  ago,  more  or  less,  but  the  fault  is  in  me,  for  when  a  man  has 
once  been  allured,  and  ensnared,  and  is  getting  old  and  deaf,  he  loses 
some  of  his  gushing  appreciation.  Nevertheless,  when  her  eldest 
daughter  touches  the  ivory  keys  and  sings  Longfellow's  beautiful 
hymn  of 

"The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night," 


328  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

my  appreciation  seems  to  come  back,  and  it  makes  me  calm  and  serene 

There  is  nothing  in  all  nature  that  so  proves  the  goodness  of  God  to 
his  creatures  as  in  giving  to  them  the  love  of  music  and  the  faculty  to 
make  it.  It  is  the  cheapest  and  the  most  universal  pleasure.  Much 
of  it  costs  nothing,  for  we  hear  it  in  the  winds  and  waves,  the  trees, 
the  waterfalls,  and  from  the  birds  and  insects.  It  is  of  many  kinds, 
from  the  pealing  anthem  that  swells  the  note  of  praise  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  down  to  the  plantation  harmonies  of  the  old-time  darkies  around 
the  corn-pile.  Between  these  extremes  we  have  the  music  of  the  drama, 
the  concert,  the  nursery,  and  the  drawing-room. 

I  was  having  these  thoughts  because  Mrs.  Arp  and  the  children 
were  practicing  some  church  music  in  the  parlor,  preparing  for  Sun- 
day. Some  of  the  family  belong  to  the  choir,  and  it  is  a  good  thing 
to  belong  to.  Choirs  have  their  little  musical  fusses  sometimes,  and 
get  in  the  pouts;  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  a  good  place  to  raise  children. 
It  makes  them  go  to  church  and  to  Sunday-school,  and  go  early,  and 
if  they  are  facing  the  congregation  they  have  to  keep  awake  and 
behave  decently,  and  they  do  their  best  to  look  pretty  and  sing 
sweetly.  I  used  to  belong  to  the  choir,  and  it  was  there  Mrs.  Arp 
saw  me,  and  ever  and  anon  heard  the  sweet  strains  of  my  melodious 
tenor  voice.  But,  alas!  that  voice  has  changed  to  a  bass  at  one  end 
and  a  falsetto  at  the  other,  and  "there's  a  melancholly  crack  in  my 
laugh." 

Young  man,  young  woman,  if  you  have  any  gifts  for  music,  you 
had  better  join  the  church  choir,  but  if  you  haven't,  don't. 

Sacred  music  is  very  much  varied  according  to  denominations.  The 
Roman  Catholic  church  is  the  oldest  and  the  richest  and  has  the  most 
passionate  music  and  the  finest  organs,  and  embraces  a  rendering  of 
such  intense  words  as  are  found  in  the  "Agnus  Dei,"  and  "Gloria  in 
Excelsis,"  and  the  litany  and  chants  of  the  old  masters.  The  Protest- 
ant church  has  rejected  the  dramatic  style  and  confined  its  music  to 
hymns  and  psalms  of  sober  temper,  and  in  the  main,  has  done  away 
with  the  fugue  and  galloping  style  of  one  part  chasing  another  through 
the  vocal  harmonies. 

I  remember  when  it  was  the  fashion,  in  fashionable  choirs,  to  give 
one  part  several  feet  the  start  in  the  race,  and  the  others  would  start 
later  and  overtake  it  before  they  all  got  to  the  end  of  the  line.  There 
is  a  hymn  beginning,   "I  love  to  steal  awhile  away,"  and  the  tenor 


The  Farji  and  The  FiREsroE.  329 

■^vould  start  out  with  "I  love  to  steal" —  aad  then  the  alto  would 
prauce  up  with  "I  love  to  steal,"  and  then  the  bass  confessed  the 
unfortunate  frailty,  "I  love  to  steal,"  and  hurried  on  for  fear  the  first 
man  Avould  steal  it  all  before  he  got  there. 

Sacred  music  is  of  very  ancient  origin.  Indeed,  it  is  older  than  the 
church  or  the  temple,  for  we  find  that  Moses  sang  a  song  when  he  had 
crossed  the  Red  Sea,  and  he  said,  "I  will  sing  a  song  unto  the  Lord, 
for  he  is  my  strength  and  my  salvation,"  and  when  he  finished  his 
song,  Miriam  took  it  up,  and  she  and  her  maidens  sang  and  made 
music  on  timbrels.  King  David  sang  all  through  his  psalms,  and 
Isaiah  not  only  sang,  but  wanted  everything  to  sing,  for  he  says: 
' '  Sing,  oh  ye  heavens,  for  the  Lord  hath  done  it.  Break  forth  into 
singing,  oh  ye  mountains,  and  every  tree,  for  the  Lord  hath  redeemed 
Israel." 

I  was  looking  over  this  book  that  we  are  now  using  in  our  church, 
a  new  and  beautiful  book  containing  1,200  hymns,  and  a  tune  Avith 
written  music  to  every  hymn.  Here  are  360  authors  of  all  Christian 
denominations.  Of  these,  sixty-one  are  women,  seventy  are  English 
Episcopalians,  twenty  are  Scotch  Presbyterians,  and  only  eight  are 
American  Presbyterians.  Eight  are  Methodists,  ten  are  Baptists, 
fourteen  are  Congregationalists,  and  five  are  Roman  Catholics.  The 
rest  are  Dissenters,  Lutherans,  Unitarians,  Moravians,  Quakers  and 
Independents.  Only  fifty-four  are  Americans.  Leaving  out  Isaac 
Watts  and  Charles  Wesley,  most  of  these  hymns  were  composed  by 
English  Episcopalians.  Isaac  Watts  was  the  founder  of  hyranology. 
One  hundred  and  twenty-six  of  his  hymns  are  in  this  book.  He  has 
been  dead  142  years,  but  we  are  still  singing:  "Welcome,  Sweet 
Day  of  Rest,"  "How  Beauteous  Are  Their  Feet,"  "When  I  Can 
Read  My  Title  Clear,"  "Before  Jehovah's  Awful  Throne,"  "Am  I 
a  Soldier  of  the  Cross?"  and  many  more  of  his  composing. 

He  was  a  very  small  man  with  a  very  large  soul.  He  was  only  five 
feet  high  and  weighed  less  than  a  hundred  pounds,  and  never  married. 
His  hymns  are  sung  all  over  the  Christian  world.  Our  grand-parents 
and  parents,  ourselves  and  our  children,  have  all  treasured  them  and 
become  familiar  with  them. 

Charles  Wesley,  a  Methodist,  has  thirty-six  hymns  in  this  book — 
most  of  them  inspired  from  his  intense,  absorbing  love  of  the  Savior 
— such  as  "Blow  Ye  the  Trumpet,  Blow,"  and  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My 


330  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

Soul."     He  was  a  brother  of  John  Wesley,  the  founder  of  Method 
ism,  and  came  to  Georgia  with  him  in  1735. 

Rev.  John  Newton  has  twenty-six  hymns  in  this  collection.  What 
a  strange,  eventful  life  was  his.  Seized  and  impressed  for  a  seaman 
on  board  a  man-of-war  when  he  was  only  nineteen  years  of  age — 
deserted — was  caught,  and  flogged,  and  degraded — deserted  again, 
and  hired  himself  to  a  slave-trading  vessel.  Four  years  afterwards  he 
went  back  to  England  and  married  Mary  Catlett,  the  girl  he  had  been 
loving  for  years.  He  then  equipped  a  slaver  of  his  own,  and  shipped 
negroes  from  Africa  to  the  West  Indies,  and  made  a  fortune. 

In  a  few  years  he  became  disgusted  with  the  business,  and  studied 
mathematics,  Latin,  Greek  and  Hebrew  without  a  teacher.  About 
that  time  Wesley  and  Whitfield  began  their  great  religious  uprising, 
and  he  was  converted  and  joined  them  and  went  to  preaching.  When 
eighty  years  old  he  preached  three  times  a  week,  and  when  urged  to 
stop  on  account  of  his  feeble  health,  he  replied:  "What!  Shall  the 
old  African  negro  trader  and  blasphemer  stop  while  he  can  speak  ? 
No ! "  No  wonder  that  the  great  change  inspired  him  to  write  those 
beautiful  hymns:  "  Amazing  Grace  !  How  Sweet  the  Sound  ; "  "One 
There  is  Above  All  Others ; "  "  Glorious  Things  of  Thee  Are  Spoken ;" 
"Savior,  Visit  Thy  Plantation." 

And  next  comes  Cowper — the  amiable,  lovable,  miserable  Cowper — 
whose  life  was  spent  in  alternating  between  hope  and  despair,  and  who 
was  sent  several  times  to  the  insane  asylum.  In  his  lucid  intervals  of 
hope  he  composed  such  hymns  as  "Sometimes  a  Light  Surprises," 
"There  is  a  Fountain  Filled  With  Blood  ;"  "Oh,  For  a  Closer  Walk 
With  God,"  and  many  others. 

James  Montgomery,  a  Moravian,  has  twenty-three  hymns  in  this 
book.  His  early  life  was  full  of  trouble.  He  was  indicted,  tried 
and  imprisoned  for  writing  a  ballad  on  the  fall  of  the  bastile.  Soon 
after  his  release  he  wrote  an  accouni  of  the  riot  at  Sheffield,  and  was 
again  imprisoned.  The  press  had  but  little  freedom  in  his  day,  but 
his  gentle,  earnest.  Christian  character  finally  won  for  him  the  regard 
of  his  enemies,  and  he  was  granted  a  pension  by  the  crown.  There 
are  no  hymns  in  this  book  sweeter  than  his.  Such,  for  instance,  as 
"Oh,  Where  Shall  Rest  Be  Found?"  "Prayer  is  The  Soul's  Sincere 
Desire;"  "People  of  The  Living  God,"  etc. 

Addison,  too,  that  stately,  polished  writer  of  essays,  found  time  and 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  331 

incliuation  to  pay  poetic  tribute  to  his  Maker.  There  is  no  poetry- 
more  majestic  than  the  hymns  beginning,  "When  All  Thy  Mercies, 
Oh,  My  God,"  and  "The  Spacious  Firmament  On  High."  And  next 
we  have  Heber,  the  gifted  bishop  of  Calcutta,  the  Christian  gentle- 
man, who  never  knew  a  want,  but,  nevertheless,  spent  his  life  in 
charity  and  missionary  work.  His  world-renowned  hymn  would  have 
immortalized  him,  if  he  had  written  nothing  else. 

"From  Greenland's  Icy  Mountains"  still  stands  as  the  chief  of  all 
missionary  hymns.  He  wrote  others  of  exquisite  beauty,  such  as 
"Brightest  and  Best  of  the  Sons  of  the  Morning"  and  "By  Cool 
Siloam's  Shady  Rill." 

Then  there  were  many  other  composers  who  did  not  write  much, 
but  wrote  exceeding  well.     There  is: 

"How  Fh-m  a  Foundation,"  by  George  Keith  ;  "Come  Ye  Discon- 
solate," by  Thomas  Moore,  the  poet  laureate  of  England ;  "Awake 
My  Soul,"  by  Medley;  "Come  Thy  Fount  of  Every  Blessing,"  by 
Robert  Robinson. 

Rev.  Augustus  Toplady  has  several  beautiful  hymns,  but  none  com- 
pare with  his  "Rock  of  Ages  Cleft  For  Me."  Sir  William  Glad- 
stone, the  great  premier  of  England,  was  so  much  impressed  with 
this  hymn  that  he  has  translated  it  into  Latin  and  other  languages. 
Of  a  later  date  we  find,  "Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,"  by  Mrs.  Adams, 
an  English  lady. 

The  oldest  hymn  in  the  book  was  written  by  Thomas  Sternhold,  in 
1549.  He  was  groom  to  Henry  VHI.  The  next  oldest  is  well  worth 
remembrance,  for  it  was  written  in  1680  by  Thomas  Ken,  and  has  but 
one  verse,  and  that  verse  is  sung  oftener  than  any  other  verse  in  the 
'^ivorld.  Its  first  line  is,  ' '  Praise  God  From  Whom  All  Blessings  Flow." 
If  Thomas  Ken  is  in  the  heavenly  choir  (and  we  believe  he  is),  what 
serene  comfort  does  his  translated  soul  enjoy  as  it  listens  every  Sabbath 
to  his  own  doxology  as  it  goes  up  from  a  million  voices  and  swells 
heavenward  from  thousands  of  organs  all  over  Christendom! 

Then  we  have  hymns  from  Richard  Baxter,  who  was  chaplain  to 
Charles  II,  and  resisted  the  usurpation  of  Cromwell. 

And  here  we  have  hymns  from  Mrs.  Charles,  the  gifted  authoress 
of  the  Schonberg  Cotta  stories,  and  from  William  Cullen  Bryant,  our 
own  poet  laureate,  and  Francis  S.  Key,  the  author  of  the  "Star 
Spangled    Banner,"  and  from   Mrs.    Sigourney  and   John   Dryden, 


332  ,         The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

another  poet  laureate  of  England,  and  Henry  Kirk  White,  who  died 
in  his  twenty-fii-st  year,  but  left  as  his  monument  "The  Star  of 
Bethlehem."  Here,  too,  is  the  litany  by  Sir  Robert  Grant.  And 
here  are  many  hymns  from  Dr.  Muhlenberg,  who  wrote  "  I  "Would 
Not  Live  Always." 

And  now,  let  me  pause  to  remember  that  all  these  men  and  women 
are  dead.  Some  have  been  dead  three  hundred  years,  some  two 
hundred  and  very  many  one  hundred,  and  some  far  less,  but  all  are 
dead.  But  poetry  outlives  prose,  and  a  song  outlives  a  sermon.  It  is 
a  comforting  fact  that  most  all  of  the  famous  poets  have  been 
Christian  men  and  women,  and  have  given  to  the  church  some  of 
their  sweetest  and  holiest  thoughts  in  song. 

Dr.  Oliver  W.  Holmes  and  John  G.  Whittier  are  both  represented 
in  this  collection. 

But  hymns  without  music  lose  half  their  beauty.  They  are  like 
birds  without  wings — they  cannot  fly  heavenward. 

And  now  if  the  choir  and  congregation  will  enter  into  the  spirit  of 
these  beautiful  hymns  and  sing  them  with  pure  religious  feeling,  it 
will  be  acceptable  praise.  A  song  without  inspiration  is  music,  but  it 
is  not  praise.  Professional  choirs  who  sing  for  pay,  seem  to  be  singing 
for  men  and  not  for  God.  Such  singing  is  like  the  funerals  that  have 
hired  mourners.  When  the  tune  fits  the  sentiment  of  the  hymn, 
like  it  was  all  one  creation  of  genius,  it  greatly  enhances  the  beauty  of 
both.  The  Coronation  Hymn  would  not  be  half  so  popular  if  the  cor- 
onation music  were  not  set  to  it.  And  this  is  one  reason  w^hy  the 
oratorios  of  the  great  masters,  such  as  Handel  and  Mozart,  have  never 
been  excelled.     They  composed  both  the  sentiment  and  the  song. 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  333 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 


The  Sorrel  Hair. 

Benson  was  his  name — Tom  Benson.  He  moved  to  our  county  and 
3)urchased  a  snug  little  farm  in  the  valley,  about  eight  miles  from 
town.  He  had  a  wife  and  three  children,  and  a  negro  man  named 
Dick.  When  Benson  came  into  the  settlement,  there  was  a  little 
cloud  came  with  him — a  cloud  over  his  reputation  for  honesty.  It 
■was  whispered  around  that  his  nabors,  who  lived  near  his  old  home, 
were  willing  for  him  to  go,  for  they  said  that  his  hogs  and  his  sheep 
increased  faster  than  was  natural,  and  theirs  decreased  in  some  mys- 
terious manner. 

But  still,  Benson  was  a  member  of  the  church,  and,  being  gifted 
with  language,  would  sometimes  talk  and  exhort  in  meeting,  and  lead 
in  prayer.  He  was  emotional  and  fervent,  and  soon  made  friends  in 
his  new  home,  and  the  cloud,  for  a  time,  dispersed.  Mrs.  Benson  was  a 
woman  of  good  family;  she  was  well  mannered  and  industrious,  but 
had  a  kind  of  pleading,  pitiful  exprdssion,  as  though  she  was  living 
under  apprehension  of  trouble.  Benson  had  family  prayer  night  and 
morning,  and  always  prayed  loud,  and  a  good  long  time ;  his  negro 
man,  Dick,  came  regularly  to  prayer,  and  said  amen  and  amen  in 
good  Methodist  fashion,  but  Dick  soon  got  under  a  cloud,  and  it  got 
larger  and  blacker  as  time  rolled  on,  for  the  nabors  said  there  was  a 
rogue  in  the  settlement.  Chickens  were  missing,  and  the  mill  had 
been  broken  open,  and  Dick  had  carried  chickens  to  town  to  sell  one 
Saturday  night.  The  relations  between  Dick  and  his  master  were 
very  confiding — much  more  so  than  was  usual  between  master  and 
slave.  They  were  companions,  and  consulted  with  each  other,  and 
this  was  after  awhile  talked  about,  to  Benson's  prejudice.  If  Dick 
stole  chickens  and  sold  them,  who  had  the  money?  That  was  the 
question.  Some  little  debts  had  followed  Benson  from  his  old  home, 
and  he  had  been  sued  in  the  Magistrate's  Court,  and  had  paid  them 
little  by  little,  and  it  was  a  mystery  where  he  got  the  money,  for  his 


334  The  Fakm  and  The  Fireside. 

crop  was  not  harvested,  and  he  had  nothing  to  sell.  But  still  Benson 
got  along,  and  met  the  brethren  on  the  Sabbath  with  a  cheerful  face, 
and  prayed  and  exhorted  as  usual.  There  is  one  other  fact — an 
important  fact — that  must  be  mentioned.  Benson  owed  a  balance  of 
five  hundred  dollars  of  purchase  money  upon  his  place,  and  had  been 
sued  for  it  in  the  Circuit  Court. 

Three  miles  below  him,  further  down  in  the  valley,  lived  a  respect- 
able old  gentleman  whose  name  was  Montague.  He  had  raised  a 
numerous  family,  but  five  of  his  sons,  and  as  many  daughters,  were 
all  married,  and  most  of  them  had  settled  in  the  naborhood  and  were 
established  and  comfortable  upon  farms  the  old  gentleman  had  given 
them,  for  he  was  quite  wealthy.  He  was  a  solid  man,  of  primitive 
habits,  a  member  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and  exemplary  in  all 
his  conduct,  saving  the  suspicion  that  he  was  a  little  too  fond  of  gold, 
and  when  he  loaned  it  exacted  too  high  a  rate  of  interest.  He  lived 
off  of  his  "intrust,"  as  he  called  it,  and  he  firmly  believed  that  his 
gold  was  his.  His  loans  were  generally  made  to  thrifty,  prosperous 
men,  but  the  poor  and  the  distressed  were  turned  away  with  the  asser- 
tion that  he  did  not  have  a  cent  in  the  world.  He  called  his  pocket 
the  world,  but  his  money  was  kept  in  an  old  hair  trunk. 

The  weight  of  many  years  had  dimmed  the  old  man's  sight,  and 
almost  stopped  up  his  ears.  His  aged  wife  was  also  deaf,  but  other- 
wise they  were  in  good  health  ;  and  almost  every  Sunday  there  was  a 
gathering  there  of  children  and  grandchildren,  and  the  old  couple 
were  going  down  to  the  grave  most  happily,  considering  their  wants 
and  their  ambition.  Sometimes  they  had  one  or  more  of  their  numer- 
ous posterity  to  stay  over  night  with  them,  but  most  generally  they 
were  alone  in  the  great  big  house,  and  the  old  man's  gold  was  in  the 
old  hair  trunk  under  his  bed.  His  numerous  slaves  and  domestic  ser- 
vants occupied  the  cabins  close  by.  Thej  wei-e  faithful  and  obedient, 
for  most  of  them  had  been  born  in  his  household,  and  knew  no  king 
but  "master,"  and  no  queen  but  "old  mistis,"  and  they  were  proud 
of  his  wealth  and  his  dignity. 

One  rainy  morning  in  the  spring  of  the  year  there  was  a  wild  alarm 
in  the  Montague  household.  The  old  hair  trunk  was  gone. ,  Mr. 
Montague  never  failed  to  give  a  glance  that  way  when  he  arose.  It 
was  his  habit  as  fixed  as  putting  on  his  garments.  He  thought  at 
first  that  his  old  eyes  deceived  him,  and  he  stooped  down  and  felt  for 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  335 

it  with  outstretched  liaud.  Hastily  dressing  himself  he  looked  around 
the  room  again  and  discovered  a  window  up— a  back  window  that 
looked  upon  the  garden.  It  had  not  been  raised  for  months.  His 
wife  had  noticed  his  unusual  manner  and  got  up  hastily  and  heard  hia 
excited  voice  and  saw  his  misery  as  he  exclaimed,  "Gone — it's  gone — 
the  trunk — look  at  the  window!"  and  he  sank  down  in  pititul  despair. 
The  old  lady  hurried  to  the  open  window  and  looked  upon  the  ground 
:and  saw  nothing  but  a  box — an  old  box  that  the  robber  had  stood 
upon.  Tottering  to  the  door,  she  screamed  to  the  servants  and  they 
came  and  they  screamed,  too,  and  sounded  the  alarm;  then  came  the 
negroes  generally  from  out  their  cabins,  for  it  was  not  yet  sunrise,  and 
the  wild  panic  began.  The  ball  was  opened.  "Fore  God  deys  stole 
old  master's  trunk,  fore  God  dey  is — tuck  it  outen  de  winder — fore 
God  dey  did!"  "Run  Bob,  run  Jesse,  run  Jake,  run  children,  run 
for  Mas  John  and  Mas  Tom  and  Mas  George — run  for  everybody  and 
tell  'em  come  quick — run,  honey,  don't  stop  nary  minit!"  And  they 
did  run.  In  less  than  an  hour  the  children  and  many  nabors  came  in 
hot  haste;  some  on  foot  and  some  on  horseback,  and  all  wild  with 
desperate  energy  to  catch  the  robbers.  It  did  not  take  long  to  track 
them  through  the  garden  and  over  the  garden  fence  and  through  the 
corn  patch  to  the  woods  that  bordered  the  clearing.  And  there  in  the 
undergrowth  of  oak  and  pine  bushes  was  the  trunk — the  old  hair 
trunk.  It  w'as  wide  open,  and  there  was  no  more  money  in  it  than 
there  was  in  the  old  man's  "world."  His  seven  thousand  dollars  in 
gold  was  gone.  He  had  counted  it  all  the  day  before,  and  the  w'eek 
before,  and  knew  the  amount.  The  old  man  tottered  feebly  to  the 
«cene  and  cried.  The  shock  was  too  much  for  him.  His  daughters 
led  him  back  sorrowfully  to  the  house,  and  as  he  bowed  along  he 
shook  his  head  and  exclaimed,  "Benson!  Tom  Benson  did  it!"  and  he 
kept  up  the  refrain,  and  as  the  crowd  passed  to  and  fro,  Benson  was 
on  every  tongue,  and  the  darkies  took  it  up  and  cried  "Benson,"  on 
the  run. 

Old  Mr.  Montague  had  a  reason  for  suspecting  Benson.  About 
two  weeks  before  the  robbery  Benson  called  one  morning  and  requested 
a  loan  of  five  hundred  dollars,  wherewith  to  lift  that  mortgage  off  his 
land  and  save  it  from  sale  under  the  sheriff's  hammer.  He  pleaded 
his  groat  necessity  in  touching  language,  and  when  the  old  man 
<leclared  he  did  not  have  a  cent  in  the  "world,"  he  grew  desperate 


336  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

■with  disappointment,  and  as  he  rose  to  go  he  pointed  his  finger  at  him 
and  said:  "I  know  you  have  got  it,  and  ten  times  over,  and  God 
Almighty  will  curse  you  with  it  yet  before  you  die,"  and  he  left  him 
greatly  irritated. 

The  old  man  had  known  somewhat  of  Benson  long  years  before 
when  they  both  lived  in  the  same  county,  and  he  did  not  like  him. 
Benson  had  served  on  a  jury  once  when  the  old  man  had  a  case  in^ 
court,  and  the  jury  found  against  him  on  a  plea  of  usury,  and  the  old 
man  lost  his  "intrust."  He  did  not  like  his  methods  nor  his  Method- 
ism. He  could  not  think  of  any  other  man  in  all  his  acquaintance 
who  was  mean  enough  and  smart  enough  to  commit  the  robbery,  and 
outside  of  this  acquaintance  it  was  not  possible  for  any  one  to  know 
he  had  any  money,  or  where  the  trunk  was  kept.  And  Dick,  the 
black  rascal!  Dick  had  visited  Mr.  Montague's  premises  more  than 
once  on  Sundays,  and  had  come  up  to  the  old  lady's  door  and  saluted 
her,  and  he  could  have  seen  the  trunk  under  the  bed,  and  told  his 
master  where  it  was. 

Thus  the  account  stood,  and  while  the  more  thoughtful  nabors  were 
looking  around  the  trunk  in  the  woods,  they  suddenly  discovered 
tracks — tracks  of  a  horse  and  a  mule.  They  found  where  the  animals 
had  been  hitched  while  the  robbei-s  went  after  the  trunk,  and  very 
near  by  where  the  mule  was  tied,  there  was  a  small  hickory  sapling 
cut  off  about  knee  high  with  a  slanting  stroke  of  the  axe.  It  had 
been  long  done  and  the  top  edge  was  hard  and  dry  and  sharp,  and 
there  on  the  point  of  it  was  a  little  patch  of  sorrel  hair.  The  mule 
had  skinned  his  leg  and  left  the  mark  behind.  This  discovery  settled 
it  and  removed  all  doubts,  for  Benson  had  a  bay  horse  and  a  sorrel 
mule.     Benson  and  Dick  were  the  robbers. 

With  hurried  haste  and  fierce  determination  the  male  members  of 
the  Montague  household  and  their  resolute  nabors  mounted  their 
steeds  and  went  galloping  up  the  valley  road  to  Benson's  house. 
Without  ceremony  or  invitation  they  entered  his  stable  lot  and 
brought  out  the  sorrel  mule,  and  on  close  inspection  found  a  skinned 
place  on  his  knee,  and  the  sorrel  hair  was  all  of  a  color.  Benson  and 
Dick  were  there  and  looked  on  with  amazement,  either  feigned  or 
real.  Poor  Mrs.  Benson  stood  in  her  door  with  clasped  hands,  and 
looked  the  picture  of  alarm  and  despair.  The  childi-en  stood  by  their 
mother  and  clung  to  her  garments  as  they  looked  in  her  face  and  thea 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  337 

at  the  crowd  of  desperate  men,  who  had  invaded  the  sacred  precincts 
of  their  home. 

The  leader  of  the  crowd  made  a  motion  to  his  companions  and 
uttered  between  his  teeth,  "Take  them."  Benson  and  Dick  were 
seized  and  tied  and  cai-ried  hastily  away.  They  were  mounted  upon 
the  mule  and  the  bay,  and  the  party  were  soon  far  beyond  the  cries 
and  shrieks  of  mother  and  children.  An  hour's  ride  found  them  in  a 
lonely  dell  back  of  the  Montague  farm,  and  there  they  dismounted 
and  prepared  their  victims  for  confession  and  restitution,  or  otherwise 
for  the  scourge.  It  was  in  vain  that  Benson  and  Dick  protested  their 
innocence  and  plead  for  mercy.  They  were  stripped  and  pinioned  to 
two  trees  not  far  from  each  other,  and  as  stroke  after  stroke  brought 
the  warm  blood  spurting  from  their  veins,  they  called  upon  God  for 
mercy,  for  man  had  none.  "Oh,  my  God,"  groaned  Benson,  as  the 
tears  ran  down  his  face.  "Oh,  Mas  Tom,  dey  is  killin'  of  me," 
screamed  Dick.  "Be  a  man,  Dick,  for  Jesus'  sake,"  replied  Benson; 
and  so  the  scourge  went  on  until  the  avengers  began  to  fear  for  the 
lives  of  their  victims  and  held  a  whispered  consultation.  One  of  the 
more  considerate  walked  away  quietly,  and  carelessly  took  another 
look  at  the  scaf  on  the  mule.  Returning  to  Benson  he  told  him  how 
much  better  it  would  be  for  him  to  give  up  the  gold,  and  promised 
that  he  should  not  be  pi'osecuted  if  he  would  do  so;  but  Benson  main- 
tained his  innocence  with  prayers  and  tears,  and  the  avengers  were 
outdone.  Salt  water  had  been  brought  to  garnish  their  wounds,  and 
half  dead  with  pain  the  victims  were  remounted  and  allowed  to  go 
home.  It  was  a  sad  return  to  a  sadder  hearthstone.  During  the  next 
few  weeks,  while  Benson  and  Dick  were  being  tenderly  nursed  and 
were  slowly  recovering,  this  bold  and  daring  robbery  was  the  all 
absorbing  topic  of  the  country  and  the  town.  There  were  not  a  few 
who  doubted  Benson's  guilt,  and  who  openly  denounced  the  brutal 
whipping,  but  the  Montague  family  were  influential  in  church  and 
State,  and  Benson's  naborhood  was  almost  solid  against  him.  They 
believed  in  his  guilt.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  ride  in  a  buggy  he 
went  to  town  with  his  wife  and  there  sent  for  the  sheriff  and  paid  off 
that  mortgage  with  five  hundred  dollars  in  gold.  This  capped  the 
climax.  This  made  the  Montagues  desperate.  The  night  afterwards 
fifteen  masked  and  mounted  men  visited  his  house  again,  and  seizing 
Benson  and  Dick,  gagged  and  tied  and  blindfolded  them  and  took 


338  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

them  away  to  parts  unknown.  They  were  kept  hidden  for  a  week, 
and  were  alternately  whipped  and  starved,  and  every  day  brought 
new  horrors.  Benson  endured  it  all  with  heroism,  but  Dick  gave  up 
repeatedly,  and  when  under  the  excrutiatiug  lash  would  promise  to 
tell  it  all  if  they  w^ould  stop.  Then  he  would  confess  his  guilt  and 
declare  that  "Mas  Tom  made  him  go,  and  Mas  Tom  had  de  money, 
but  he  didn't  know  whar  he  hid  it."  "Now  Dick — now  Dick,"  Ben- 
son would  say,  "speak  the  truth  if  they  kill  you — you  know  that  ain't 
80,  is  it,  Dick?  "Would  you  tell  a  lie  on  your  best  friend,  Dick?" 
And  Dick  would  reply:  "Oh,  Mas  Tom,  dey  will  kill  me  if  I  don't 
tell  somefin."  As  a  last  resort  they  built  up  a  brush-heap  and  laid 
their  victims  on  it  and  set  it  on  fire.  The  flames  leaped  quickly 
through  the  dry  fagots  and  licked  their  clothes,  and  next  their  skin, 
and  they  were  hastily  pulled  off  the  heap  and  their  burning  garments 
drenched  with  water,  and  still  they  gave  no  sign.  This  was  the  last, 
and  the  victims  were  still  alive.  They  were  kept  two  more  days  to 
recover  the  life  that  was  nearly  gone,  and  then  during  the  darkness  of 
the  following  night  were  returned  again  to  their  home. 

Some  two  months  after  this  the  Circuit  Court  convened  in  the  county 
town,  and  certain  members  of  the  ^Montague  family  attended  and 
went  before  the  Grand  Jury.  They  exhibited  the  patch  of  sorrel  hair 
and  recited  the  other  evidences  of  guilt,  and  procured  a  true  bill  for 
robbery  and  burglary  in  the  night-time.  Benson  and  Dick  were 
arrested,  and  for  lack  of  friends  were  put  in  jail.  In  due  time  Benson 
was  put  on  trial.  An  able  counselor  and  eloquent  advocate  was 
employed  by  him — a  lawyer  who  had  doubts  of  his  guilt  and  sympa- 
thized with  his  misfortune.  The  prosecution  was  vigorously  urged 
and  as  vigorously  defended,  and  resulted  in  a  verdict  of  guilty,  for 
the  patch  of  sorrel  hair  was  in  the  way,  and  proved  fatal  to  liberty.  The 
case  was  carried  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State,  and  the  verdict 
affirmed,  and  Benson  was  sentenced  to  the  penitentiary  for  twenty 
years.  Alas  for  the  broken-hearted  wife  and  weeping  children!  The 
little  farm  was  seized  and  sold  for  costs  of  the  prosecution.  The 
father  went  off  in  chains  one  way  and  his  wife  and  children  another. 
They  removed  to  Mississippi  where  Mrs.  Benson  had  kindred,  who 
though  they  were  poor,  gave  her  a  kind  and  welcome  home. 

Benson  had  served  three  years  of  his  term.  He  was  growing  old, 
and  prematurely  gray,  and  was  known  among  the  convicts  as  Jere- 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  339 

raiah,  for  his  Uiinentations  were  sad  and  frequent.  He  grieved  most 
of  all  because  of  the  taint  that  his  conviction  entailed  upon  his  chil- 
dren, and  never  failed  to  assert  his  innocence  to  visitors.  One  day, 
about  this  time,  his  counsel  received  a  letter — a  very  remarkable  let- 
ter— written  and  signed  by  a  man  whose  name  is  Kobinson.  It  was 
written  in  a  dungeon — the  dungeon  of  a  jail  in  a  distant  county  in 
this  State.  It  was  well  written,  and  was  scholarly  in  language,  and 
said,  in  substance,  that  the  writer  was  charged  with  robbery  and  bur- 
glary, and  the  evidence  was  conclusive,  and  he  was  only  waiting  the 
setting  of  the  court  to  plead  guilty  and  begin  the  term  of  his  service 
of  twenty  years  in  the  penitentiary.  But  there  was  a  man  there  by 
the  name  of  Benson  whom  he  did  not  want  to  meet,  for  Benson  was 
serving  and  suffering  for  a  crime  he  did  not  commit,  and  if  his  coun- 
sel would  visit  the  writer,  sufficient  evidence  would  be  furnished  to 
establish  his  innocence.  The  letter  was  of  such  a  character  as  to 
merit  confidence  and  demand  immediate  attention.  The  counsel  lost 
no  time  in  making  the  journey.  When  he  arrived  and  was  admitted 
to  the  prisoner's  cell,  he  found  a  gentleman  of  culture  and  impressive 
manner — a  man  who  looked  more  like  a  poet  than  a  felon.  He  was 
8Ui-rounded  b'y  many  evidences  of  refinement.  Shakspeare  and 
Byron,  and  various  novels  were  upon  his  table.  His  clothing  was  of 
fine  quality,  and  sat  well  upon  his  well  formed  person.  The  coun- 
sel was  not  long  in  receiving  his  confession,  for  it  was  a  con- 
fession of  his  own  guilt  in  committing  the  Montague  robbery.  He 
was  educated  as  a  physician,  he  said,  and  received  his  diploma  from  a 
Virginia  college.  In  his  youth  he  had  become  fascinated  with  the 
romances  that  portrayed  a  brigand's  life,  and  after  removing  to  St. 
Louis  he  was  induced  by  some  fellows  of  kindred  minds  to  join  in  a 
series  of  adventures,  whereby  the  rich  and  miserly  could  be  made  to 
disgorge,  and  the  poor  and  needy  be  lilted  up.  "We  have,"  said  he, 
*' distributed  thousands  and  thousands  of  dollars  in  this  way  and 
saved  but  little  for  ourselves,  for  we  enjoyed  the  excitement  and  peril 
of  our  calling  more  than  we  enjoyed  the  booty.  A  few  years  ago  our 
line  of  service  was  from  St.  Louis  to  Fensacola,  and  the  old  man  Mon- 
tague was  directly  on  the  route.  We  learned  that  he  was  a  miser  and 
that  he  hoarded  his  gold.  The  week  before  he  was  robbed  my  pal 
and  I  stayed  over  night  with  him,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  entertain 
travelers.     I  was  riding  a  blooded   Kentucky  mare  and  m)-  compan- 


340  The  Farm  and  The  FmESiDE. 

ion  was  "svell  mounted  on  a  fine  large  sorrel  mule.  That  night  we 
made  observations  of  the  plan  of  the  house  and  the  surroundings. 
The  next  morning  after  breakfast  I  gave  the  old  man  a  twenty-dollar 
gold  piece  to  pay  our  bill,  and  I  saw  he  was  pleased  to  handle  it.  I 
saw  him  go  to  his  bedroom  and  unlock  the  old  hair  trunk  and  get  the 
change,  and  he  had  to  untie  a  bag  of  coin  to  get  it ;  then  he  produced 
a  small  old  leather-bound  book  which  he  said  Avas  his  travelers'  book. 
Indeed  it  had  his  name  rudely  written  upon  the  cover.  He  asked  our 
names,  and  I  gave  him  mine  as  William  Thompson,  of  Kentucky. 
He  wrote  it  down  with  a  pencil  at  the  top  of  a  page,  and  spelled  my 
name  without  an  "h"  or  a  "p"  and  marked  it  "paid"  and  left  out 
the  "  i "  in  that  word.  I  remember  these  things  distinctly.  We 
traveled  on  to  a  little  village  a  few  miles  away  and  remained  there 
until  the  dark  of  the  moon.  We  left  one  evening  under  pretense  of 
visiting  some  friends  in  the  country  and  then  continuing  our  journey 
southward,  but  by  the  time  it  was  dark  we  reversed  our  course,  and 
by  ten  o'clock  had  j)assed  old  Montague's  house,  and  secreted  our- 
selves in  the  woods  a  quarter  of  a  mile  back.  There  we  waited  until 
the  hour  when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man.  With  our  dai'k  lantern 
it  was  easy  to  find  our  way  to  the  house  and  the  window,  and  still 
easier  in  our  stockings  to  take  the  trunk  from  under  the  bed  where 
two  old  deaf  persons  were  sleeping.  Now,  in  that  trunk  we  found  the 
seven  thousand  dollars  in  gold,  and  we  found  the  two  left-hand  halves 
of  two  one  hundred  dollar  bills  on  the  Bank  of  the  State  of  Georgia. 
These  two  halves  I  have  kept  and  they  will  be  sent  you  in  a  few  days. 
They  are  marked  letter  A,  and  one  is  numbered  2,096,  and  the  other 
2,097.  I  have  here  the  Supreme  Court  reports  of  this  State  that  con- 
tains the  sworn  testimony  of  old  man  Montague,  and  he  does  not  men- 
tion these  bills.  He  says  he  lost  nothing  but  gold;  but  he  did,  and 
he  knew  he  did,  and  no  doubt  put  the  officers  of  the  bank  upon 
notice.  I  suppose  he  had  sent  off  the  other  halves  in  a  letter  and  w^as 
waiting  to  hear  from  them  before  he  sent  these.  Now,  my  dear  sir, 
what  more  no  you  want?     Is  this  not  enough  to  release  Benson?" 

It  surely  is,  said  the  counsel.  He  sent  the  jailer  for  a  magistrate 
and  had  Dr.  Robinson  sworn  to  his  confession,  and  was  preparing  to 
leave  when  the  doctor  arose  and  said:  "One  more  thing,  my  dear  sir. 
I  have  been  here  long  enough  to  review  my  life  and  consider  my  great 
mistake.     I  have  not  done   bodily  harm  to  any  one  in  pursuing  ray 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  841 

unla^vful  avocation,  but  I  have  brought  dishonor  upon  my  only  child. 
She  has  no  mother  and  is  living  with  her  grandmother,  and  they 
know  nothing  of  my  manner  of  life.  It  has  been  two  years  since  I 
saw  them,  but  they  have  not  suffered  for  anything.  My  gold  watch 
and  chain  are  very  valuable,  and  I  will  have  them  sent  you  so  that 
you  may  send  them  to  her.  I  shall  never  see  her  again,"  and  his 
voice  trembled  and  fell  as  he  uttered  the  last  sentence. 

The  counsel  learned  that  Robinson  had  lately  robbed  an  old  man  in 
that  neighborhood  of  four  thousand  dollars,  and  had  blundered  in  his 
boldness,  for  he  was  pursued,  surrounded  and  caught  with  the  money 
on  his  person.  The  twenty  years'  sentence  would  about  wind  up  his 
life,  and  he  knew  it  and  was  resigned  to  his  fate.  He  had  taken  his 
chances  and  lost. 

In  a  few  days  after  the  attorney  had  returned  to  his  home,  he 
received  a  letter  enclosing  the  half  bills.  The  letter  was  mailed  in 
Louisville,  Ky.,  and  said  this  only:  "By  direction  of  my  friend,  I 
enclose  you  these  half  bills."  There  was  no  signature.  He  imme- 
diately interviewed  Montague's  attorneys  and  submitted  evidence  to 
them.  They  began  the  perusal  of  the  long  confession  with  a  careless 
incredulity,  but  as  they  read  along  a  change  came  over  them — a 
change  from  doubt  to  conviction — and  when  the  half  bills  were 
exhibited,  the  elder  attorney  said  with  emotion:  " He  is  innocent. 
No  man  knew  of  those  half  bills  but  Mr.  Montague  and  myself.  I 
charged  him  to  keep  it  a  secret,  for  I  thought  the  robber  would  seek 
to  collect  them  from  the  bank,  and  it  would  give  us  a  clue  to  the 
gold."  Let  it  be  mentioned  here  that  on  the  trial  of  Benson  he  was 
unable  to  prove  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Benson's  father  had  sent  her  the  five 
hundred  dollars  that  saved  the  farm  from  sale.  He  was  old  and  bed- 
ridden, and  could  not  attend  court,  for  he  lived  a  hundred  miles 
away  and  the  friend  who  brought  the  money  was  on  his  way  to  the 
West,  and  could  not  be  heard  from  in  time.  So  the  gold  that  he  paid 
the  sheriff*  remained  unaccounted  for  and  was  a  weight  in  the  scale 
of  evidence — a  weight  not  as  heavy  as  the  little  patch  of  sorrel  hair, 
but  with  both  together,  his  conviction  was  sealed. 

Next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  the  counsel  on  both  sides  went 
down  to  Montague's.  Sons  and  sons-in-law  had  gathered  there  as 
usual  to  spend  the  day  and  comfort  the  aged  ancestors.  In  due  time 
the  lawyers  made  known  their  mission  and  exhibited  all  their  proofs. 


342  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

The  traveler's  book  was  called  for,  and  there  at  the  top  of  a  page  was 
Wm.  Thompson's  name,  and  the  spelling  was  just  as  it  was  sworn  to, 
and  the  date  was  correct,  and  the  half  bills  were  identified,  for  the  old 
man  had  made  a  cross  mark  upon  the  corner  of  each.  The  children 
were  all  reluctantly  convinced,  but  the  old  man  shook  his  head 
solemnly  and  declared  it  all  a  lawyer's  trick.  "If  the  travelers  took 
my  money,"  said  he,  ' '  Benson  told  them  where  it  was,  and  Benson 
helped  them."  He  refused  utterly  to  sign  a  petition  to  the  governor 
for  Benson's  release,  but  the  sons  and  sons-in-law  all  signed  it  after  an 
assurance  that  Benson's  counsel  would  not  advise  or  take  a  fee  to  sue 
or  prosecute  them  for  damages,  for  by  this  time  it  was  pretty  well 
known  who  the  masked  men  were. 

Benson's  attorney  proceeded  next  day  to  Milledgeville,  which  was 
then  the  State  capital.  Howell  Cobb  was  the  Governor — a  man  of 
great  tenderness  of  heart — and  when  the  whole  case  was  made  fully 
known  to  him,  he  said  with  much  feeling:  "The  poor  old  man;  what 
sufferings  of  mind  and  body  he  has  endured.  I  have  noticed  him 
every  time  I  have  visited  the  convicts,  and  wondered  if  there  was  not 
possibly  some  mistake.  He  had  a  pleading  and  heart-broken  look. 
Let  us  go  there  at  once  and  release  him." 

AYhen  the  warden  called  Benson  to  them,  it  was  with  a  choking 
utterance  that  the  governor  made  known  their  mission.  It  came  upon 
the  poor  man  with  a  shock  of  surprise  and  joy  that  sunk  him  to  his 
knees,  and  he  wept  like  a  child.  "The  Lord  be  praised!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  said  that  though  He  slay  me,  yet  would  I  trust  in 
Him.  Oh,  my  wife  and  my  children !  Thank  God,  thank  God,  for 
His  mercy  endureth  forever!"  His  rhapsody  knew  no  bounds, 
and  his  fellow-prisoners  stopped  their  work  to  listen  and  to  wonder. 
Benson's  striped  garments  were  soon  discarded  and  he  was  clothed  in  a 
decent  citizen's  dress.  With  glad  emotion  he  bade  good-bye  to  all, 
taking  each  by  the  hand  and  telling  them  to  trust  in  God  and  do 
right.  On  arriving  at  his  county  town  where  he  Avas  tried  and  con- 
victed, he  spent  a  day  in  meeting  the  few  friends  he  had  thei-e,  and 
then  with  the  means  furnished  by  the  Governor  and  his  counsel,  con- 
tinued his  journey  to  Mississippi  in  search  of  his  family. 

Some  six  months  afterwards  his  counsel  were  surprised  by  an  unex- 
pected visit  from  him.  He  looked  once  more  like  a  man,  and  was 
clean  shaved  and  well  dressed  and  had  less  stoop  in  his  broad  shoulders 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside.  343 

than  when  they  saw  him  last.  It  did  not  take  him  long  to  disclose  liis 
business.  He  had  a  letter  from  an  eminent  lawyer  of  Mississippi, 
advising  a  suit  to  be  brought  in  the  United  States  Court  against  his 
lynchers,  the  Montagues  and  their  elan,  for  damages.  His  former 
counsel,  of  course,  declined  his  case  which  was  no  more  than  he 
expected,  and  he  went  to  Marietta,  where  the  Federal  Court  was  held, 
and  there  procured  the  services  of  an  able  jurist  who  at  once  filed, 
fifteen  separate  actions  against  fifteen  men,  and  in  each  action  had  the 
other  fourteen  summoned  as  witnesses  by  the  United  States  Marshal. 
Each  man  was  sued  for  ten  thousand  dollars  damages  for  his  arrest  and 
imprisonment  and  maltreatment  while  their  prisoner. 

What  a  consternation  there  was  in  the  Montague  settlement  when 
the  Marshal  served  those  writs!  What  a  shaking  and  quaking  of  dry 
bones!  With  what  haste  and  alarm  did  they  hurry  to  town  and  seek 
conference  with  their  lawyers.  But  they  found  little  comfort.  The 
lawyers  seemed  helpless,  for  they  knew  the  power  and  the  rigor  of  the 
Federal  Court.  They  knew  the  inflexible  integrity  and  the  stern  jus- 
tice of  the  old  judge  who  presided,  and  they  knew  the  ability  and 
vigor  of  Benson's  counsel.  After  much  consultation  it  was  agreed 
that  the  Montague  lawyers  should  visit  Marietta  and,  if  possible, 
effect  a  compromise  and  take  the  cases  out  of  court. 

In  this  they  succeeded.  Fifteen  thousand  dollars  was  paid  over  to 
Benson's  counsel  without  delay.  He  took  one  third  of  it  for  his  fee 
and  Benson  retunied  to  his  family  with  ten  thousand  dollars  in  his 
pocket.  With  this  sum  he  purchased  another  farm  and  was  living 
happily  with  his  wife  and  children  when  last  heard  from.  And  Dick 
was  there — Dick  who  was  released  vathout  trial,  had  followed  his  mis- 
tress and  was  her  faithful  and  trusty  friend  during  his  master's  impris- 
onment. We  do  not  know,  but  can  only  imagine,  how  he  rejoiced 
with  her  and  her  children  when  Benson  surprised  the  long  bereaved 
household  Avith  his  presence. 

But  what  of  Dr.  Robinson,  the  bold  and  dashing  brigand — the 
dupe  of  such  romances  as  Jack  Sheppherd  and  the  Robber  Clifton  and 
the  Italian  bandit  ?  In  due  time  he  was  sent  to  the  penitentiary  for 
twenty  years.  His  culture  and  his  bearing  and  good  conduct  soon 
gave  him  prominence  and  favor  with  the  warden.  He  gave  the  con- 
victs good  advice  and  set  them  a  good  example.  He  organized  a  Sab- 
bath-school and  became  fond  of  the  Scriptures.     He  sought  to  make 


344  The  Farm  and  The  Fireside. 

amends  for  his  past  conduct  by  reclaiming  the  bad  men  within  the 
prison  walls.  Time  and  again  he  had  oi^portunities  to  escape,  but  he 
Avould  not  use  them.  He  was  urged  to  ask  for  a  pardon  from  the 
Governor,  but  he  refused,  and  even  intimated  that  he  would  not  accept 
it  if  offered  to  him,  for  he  declared  he  had  a  mission  to  accomplish 
and  there  was  work  for  him  to  do  that  nobody  else  would  do. 

Time  rolled  on — Robinson  had  been  in  service  about  three  years. 
He  had  ministered,  like  a  good  Samaritan,  among  his  fellow-prisoners. 
He  nursed  them  when  sick,  and  though  there  was  a  nominal  physician 
who  was  paid  by  the  Government,  Dr.  Robinson  was  the  real  one  who 
used  his  professional  skill  and  knowledge  among  them. 

About  this  time  the  war  broke  out  between  the  States,  and  when  a 
few  years  after,  Sherman  made  his  march  to  the  sea  and  was  fast 
approaching  Milledgeville,  Governor  Brown  went  down  to  the 
penitentiary  and  made  the  convicts  a  speech.  He  told  them  of  the 
wrongs  our  people  had  suffered,  and  of  the  invasion  of  our  State  by 
armed  forces  who  were  burning  and  destroying  everything  in  their 
path.  He  pictured  to  them  the  utter  desolation  of  those  whom 
Sherman  left  behind  him,  and  how  helpless  women  and  children  were 
fleeing  for  their  lives  to  escape  the  brutality  of  foreign  hirelings.  He 
told  them  he  was  going  to  discharge  them  all  and  turn  them  out, 
and  that  it  did  not  follow  that  they  were  not  patriots  because  they 
were  convicts.  And  he  hoped  and  believed  they  would  stand  up, 
fight  for  and  defend  their  State  and  their  people  and  kindred. 

"With  a  wild  hurrah.  Dr.  Robinson  threw  up  his  hat  and  shouted: 
"To  arms,  to  arms,  ye  brave!"  He  had  the  kettle-drum  beat  for  vol- 
unteers, and  organized  a  company  of  160  men,  and  was  unanimously 
elected  captain.  Their  stripes  were  discarded  and  soldiers'  clothes 
were  furnished  and  guns  placed  in  their  hands,  and  they  marched 
forth  freemen  and  patriots,  and  joined  the  State  troops  and  fought 
manfully  and  well,  but  their  efforts  were  all  in  vain  to  arrest  the 
onward  march  of  the  foe.  When  Governor  Brown  resumed  the  occu- 
pation of  the  State  capital,  and  the  war  was  over.  Dr.  Robinson 
returned  singly  and  alone  to  serve  out  his  sentence,  but  was  refused 
admittance.  "No,  sir," said  the  Governor,  with  much  feeling.  "No, 
sir,  you  have  no  business  there,  doctor,  for  your  patients  are  all 
gone." 

A  few  years  ago  the  writer  of  this  reminiscence  had  a  letter  from  a 


The  Farm  and  The  Fireside,  345 

friend  in  St.  Louis.  "My  office,"  said  he,  "is  next  door  to  that  oi 
Dr.  Robinson,  well  known  to  you  ^.s  Montague's  rob])er.  He  ie 
practicing  his  profession  with  success  in  the  city.  His  daughter  is 
happily  married,  and  he  lives  with  her,  and  is  highly  esteemed." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


P,  Dsc'-'-i? "7  ■ 


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IVQV 1  8 1964 


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